Digging Two Graves
by Maria Thorne
Summary: Some enemies will go to any extreme for revenge.
1. Chapter 1

Standard disclaimers apply. Airwolf and her crew belong to Donald Bellisario, et al; I just had a good time playing with them.

-----------------

**"Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves." ‒ Confucius**

**Chapter One  
**

_He didn't like being here._

_It didn't feel right, no matter what they told him about this being the safest place for him, the place where he would be looked after the best._

_Wherever "here" was. He had only the foggiest memory of arriving, none at all of where he'd been before. Someone ‒ a doctor ‒ had told him he'd been in an accident, been badly hurt. He couldn't remember anything about that either. _

_But the biggest problem was, he had no idea at all of how he was going to leave "here" again._

It was a problem that had begun to bother him, off and on, for a while now. He couldn't even say how long, because his grasp of the passage of time was shaky. On a good day, it was easy ‒ minutes, hours, days, no problem. On a bad day, he only registered if there was daylight on the other side of the windows ‒ if they let him get near the windows.

Today seemed to be one of the in-between days, when he was content to just let his mind drift without trying to think too much about what was going on around him. He sat in his wheelchair in the lounge, a large, light-painted room with several groupings of deep, comfortable armchairs and sofas scattered around and sliding glass doors leading out onto a flagstone patio. Beyond the patio was a view of densely wooded hills, almost invisible now in a driving rain. Between the patio and the hills was a high chain link fence, discreetly electrified.

The wheelchair was pushed up next to one of the glass doors. The man in the chair wore a cotton shirt and pants, neatly pressed; his short-cut, light brown hair was combed and tidy. His hooded blue eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the hills, or on something even more distant. He ignored the few other occupants of the room, including the stout woman in floral-patterned scrubs sitting next to him.

Karen Moseby ‒ a freckled strawberry blonde with a small pursed mouth and hard little green eyes, overweight by a good forty pounds and habitually smelling of sweat ‒ looked at him and sighed with boredom. She'd spent an hour after lunch trying to interest him in books, a jigsaw puzzle, a game of checkers, to no avail. Elena Wojnowski, one of the other nurse's aides who looked after him, had said last week that she sometimes wondered if there was more going on behind that often-blank stare than he was letting anyone know; that it could be a smokescreen, keeping them guessing being the only sort of control he had over anything, considering that half his body and probably even less of his mind didn't work and he was trapped in a wheelchair, and beyond that within the regime of the clinic.

Not that it mattered a damn to Karen. She was being paid to look after him, to feed him, clean him, keep him occupied and out of trouble and to stop him from doing anything that would attract attention. Nothing in her contract about trying to figure out what was really going on in his head. And her job was a lot easier when he was staring blankly out the window than when he got into a tantrum and started yelling and flailing around.

Shame, though. He was a good-looking guy, and must have been pretty athletic before whatever it was had happened, and he'd ended up like this.

"String," she tried.

On one of his more communicative days, he'd insisted that his name was String. Nobody knew why; his real name was Tommy Vine. Maybe it was a nickname. He was skinny enough that somebody might once have called him String Bean as a joke. To humor him his caregivers tried to remember to use String, unless Dr. Fairling was around, if for no other reason than that it made their lives easier. Calling him Tommy or Mr. Vine tended to upset him.

"String, it's time for your nap." It was still a bit early, but she was fed up with sitting there watching the rain fall. If she could get him into bed she could have an extra hour to watch the soaps, and what difference did it make to him if he stared at trees or the ceiling of his room? Without further ado she grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and turned it smartly around, heading out of the room.

"I want to go outside," said String fretfully, choosing now to break his silence.

Without pausing she replied, "It's pouring rain out there. You'd get soaked."

"Don't care. I want to go out."

One of the nurses came down the hall toward them. Karen said sweetly, "You can go out tomorrow, if the rain's stopped. You don't want to catch your death of pneumonia, do you?"

There was a pause, then, strangely, he gave a bark of laughter. "Maybe." Then he put both hands on the arms of the chair and pushed, trying to get up.

Shit. Was he going to start getting difficult? The nurse disappeared into a patient's room and closed the door. Karen stopped and came around to bend over the chair. She pushed him back down ‒ she was probably as strong as he was ‒ then gripped his chin in one hand, holding harder than strictly necessary, to make sure he got the point. "You're going to go to bed and rest now, String. Don't give me a hard time or you know what'll happen."

He glared at her. She gave his chin a shake, then resumed pushing the chair, wondering if she was going to have to use the restraints again to keep him in bed, now that he'd started to get agitated. Of course, he hated that; he'd managed to make that perfectly clear. But he never told on her. Who was going to listen to him, anyway?

-------------------

The next day it was Elena's turn to look after him. String liked her better than Karen. She had a narrow face with sallow skin and lines beginning to show around her mouth and between her eyes; her long dark hair, which was starting to show a few gray strands, was usually tied back in neat braid. In spite of the habitual seriousness and intensity of her expression, which made her look rather forbidding, she was much more sympathetic than any of the others.

The rain had stopped and Elena pushed his chair outside onto the patio, next to one of the small tables. It was a cold day. She fetched a blanket to put over his shoulders.

After a while of sitting in his usual silence, he suddenly said conversationally, "The trees are different."

She looked up at the tree-clad hills, puzzled. "Different from what?"

"From where."

"All right then, from where?"

That seemed to stump him. He frowned, pushing a hand through his hair. "Don't know. Someplace else ‒ can't remember."_ He could see it, though, in his mind. The picture wasn't clear; it was like the tail end of a fading dream, and, like a dream, the harder he tried to hold the image in his mind the faster it slipped away. Evergreens instead of the trees he could see that were turning shades of yellow and red for the approaching autumn. A lake. An ‒ eagle?_

Silence again. After a while, a humming noise in the sky had them both looking up.

"Just a helicopter," said Elena reassuringly, in case String was worried by the noise. He was staring up at the machine, which was so high it wasn't much more than a silver speck.

"Bell Jet Ranger," said String.

"What?"

"The helicopter. That's what it was."

Elena stared at him. "How did you know that?"

He looked bewildered. "Like the trees. It's from someplace else."

They sat on the patio for a while longer, but the helicopter didn't return, and String didn't say anything more. Still, Elena mentally filed the incident away for future reference. She'd mention it to Dr. Fairling the next time she saw her. Maybe this was one of those rare chinks in the wall that stood between String and reality.

She wheeled him back inside for his lunch. There was a proper dining room for the patients, but since String's moods tended to be unpredictable and sometimes downright antisocial, he was generally given his meals on a tray either in the lounge or his room. When he'd finished eating she managed to tease him into a game of checkers. After about a quarter of an hour, though, he began losing his ability to concentrate, and she took him back to his room. She helped him maneuver in the bathroom, then settled him in bed for his afternoon rest.

"Sleep well, String," she said, smoothing down the blanket over him. He nodded, his eyes closing docilely.

Well! she thought, leaving the private room and locking the door behind her. If only every day could be this easy.

At least she generally had fewer problems with him than did Karen or Luisa, the third woman who shared caregiving duties with them.

She knew why Karen had difficulties. Her idea of looking after String well was to treat him like a small child, speaking patronizingly and patting him on the head if he did what she wanted, threatening to punish him if he didn't. And if he got upset or misbehaved, her tendency was to punish first and ask why later ‒ if ever. Elena had seen that method in operation. She'd been sitting in the lounge one day with another patient, not long after String had arrived at the clinic, when Karen had brought String's dinner tray in. She still remembered what was on it ‒ meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and carrots. Simple, nutritious, and easy to eat with only a fork and spoon ‒ the patients were never allowed to have knives. A lot of them couldn't cope with cutlery at all.

String hadn't wanted the meat loaf. Karen had coaxed and cajoled, trying to maintain the friendly smile that she always wore when anyone was around to see it. That hadn't worked, and finally she'd tried to force the food into his mouth.

He gave a yell of fury and tossed the whole thing at her, tray, plate, food and all, showing more strength and dexterity than Karen had obviously expected.

Furious, the woman had immediately fastened the chair's restraints around his wrists, then wheeled him out of the room. He was still yelling and struggling when the door closed behind them. At least he could swear fluently, even if he didn't often speak.

Elena had sighed. She knew Karen would see to it that he'd be punished for that stunt; patients had to be taught that behavior like that wasn't acceptable. Still, it didn't seem fair. He'd acted virtually in self defense.

The next day it had been her turn to feed him lunch. She looked at him warily as she set the tray down in front of him, wondering if she might be wearing it next, and discovered him looking back at her with almost the identical expression on his face. He was obviously worried that she was going to treat him the way Karen had.

"Look, no meat loaf," she said. "I guess you don't like meat loaf."

No response, but after a good long look at the plate he picked up the spoon (he hadn't been given even a fork that day) and started in on the meal - canned tuna and mashed carrots, with a scoop of vanilla pudding for dessert. He ate most of it, and since she knew he didn't usually have much of an appetite anyway, she didn't nag him to finish the rest of it.

"I like fish," he'd said suddenly, when she was removing the tray.

He liked fish, he didn't like meat loaf. It was that simple. But Karen would rather try to stuff the food down his throat than accommodate him. She thought he was infantile; that he could be easily bullied into doing what she wanted him to.

Elena didn't know what was wrong with this man, any more than her co-workers did; but from what she'd seen, she suspected that his occasional outbursts of peevishness and bad temper most likely stemmed from his frustration about his condition and the lack of control over his surroundings. And she was sure that somewhere behind the habitually narrowed blue eyes was an intelligent man with a strong personality. So she was willing to treat him as such, even when his only response was a blank stare.

She dropped off her keys at the front desk ‒ no one was allowed to take keys home with them ‒ and headed outside, nodding at the arriving Luisa Rodriguez. Her shift was over, and Luisa would get him up from his nap and look after him for the rest of the day. All the patients were in bed for the night by eleven o'clock, and after that the night staff took care of any problems.

Elena headed for the parking lot and her waiting car. The Green Hills Nursing Home and Clinic was well out in the countryside, and as she drove through the New Hampshire hills on her way back to town she found herself still thinking about her patient. He had therapy sessions with Dr. Fairling every Friday morning. She wasn't normally scheduled to work that day, but maybe she would phone the doctor and let her know about the helicopter thing. She thought it was a good sign.

Strange, though. They'd been given no history at all about this man, nothing except for his name. He'd been in good physical shape when he arrived, even though he had no function in his lower limbs, and so they all assumed that he'd suffered a recent accident of some kind, that had caused serious brain damage as well as the paraplegia. But his condition had dwindled substantially as the weeks went on, and the doctor had ordered no physio, no therapy of any kind to help him regain the use of his legs. It was as if she didn't care if he got better or not. And yet three nurses' aides – each of whom had been told that Mr. Vine's presence at the Green Hills was to be kept strictly confidential, and under no circumstances was to be mentioned outside the facility – had been assigned to give him almost twenty-four hour personalized care. Not many other patients were so well looked after.

There were plenty of odd things about Green Hills, Elena knew. For instance, she'd gradually found out during her three years there that most of the staff seemed to have left previous jobs in disgrace, for various reasons; a few even had a criminal record. Minor offenses, but they were never going to get a decent nursing job again. That wasn't to say that some of them weren't good at their work, or didn't treat the patients with compassion. But it did mean that they weren't likely to comment on any lack of professional conduct, or even downright abuse.

She had her suspicions about Dr. Fairling, too. She seemed pleasant and professional the few times Elena had had any contact with her, but Elena couldn't shake the feeling that the woman really didn't give a damn what happened to String. And on the two occasions when she'd been there on a Friday, String had looked tense as a drum skin when she wheeled him into the doctor's office and wrung out afterwards. Whatever went on in there, it wasn't easy on him.

A car horn blasted behind her, and she realized she was sitting at a green light. Accelerating through the intersection, she tried to stop thinking about her patient.

Like some of the other staff at the clinic, Elena too had a criminal record. Shoplifting. Nothing major. But it was enough to make her appreciate the paycheck that came regularly from the clinic, and if she really thought about it, she knew that she wasn't being paid enough to take on the whole system on behalf of one man who did little more than sit and stare off into the distance.

-----------------

Dr. Carol Fairling looked across her desk at the man sitting opposite her in the wheelchair. She was a tall woman in her mid-forties, with long smooth reddish-brown hair that she kept pinned up and a face that was rather bland and somehow featureless. "Well, Mr. Vine, I see you've been doing well this week. No unpleasant episodes of any kind. Are you beginning to feel happier here, then?"

String's head raised a few inches, as if to nod yes. Then the gesture changed to a side-to-side, negative motion.

"Really? I'm sorry you feel that way. Everyone here is doing their best to look after you, you know. Can you tell me what exactly is making you unhappy?"

He said haltingly, "Don't like it here. Can't walk. Can't think right." One fist thumped on the arm of the chair. "Can't do anything."

"Well, of course you can't walk, Mr. Vine. I've told you before, you were in a serious accident. You hurt your back, and you are never likely to walk again. You are going to be helpless for a long while, and you must begin to accept that. You've made a good start. I'm very proud of you when you keep your temper and behave nicely, you know. And I'm sure you understand by now that throwing things and shouting at people only makes everything worse, doesn't it?" She waited for a moment, but there was no response. "Doesn't it, Mr. Vine?"

He nodded.

"Now then. One of your caregivers mentioned to me that you happened to notice a helicopter flying overhead the other day, and that you were able to identify it. That's quite interesting. Why do you think you were able to do that?"

"Don't know."

"Did you find it disturbing that you could tell what kind of helicopter it was, but not remember why?"

Another nod.

"Well, let's see what we can do about that. Think carefully, Mr. Vine. I need to know exactly what you think you remember about helicopters."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Karen was quite happy to let Elena work Friday evening for her, so she could see if there was any improvement after that week's therapy.

Luisa was waiting for her when she arrived mid-afternoon on Friday. The short, stocky Latina, usually bright and bubbly, was looking as sober as Elena had ever seen her. "Not a good day," she murmured.

"What happened?"

"Don't know. Guess it wasn't a good session with the doctor." Luisa shrugged and handed over her set of keys, including the one to String's room. "_Buena suerte_."

Elena hurried down the hall. "Dr. Fairling left you a message," Luisa called after her.

"Thanks. I'll get it later." Elena reached the room and unlocked the door.

Oh hell.

String was lying on the bed, useless lower limbs lying slack, upper body curled up on himself as tightly as he could possibly manage. Every so often, he gave a kind of soft, keening moan.

"Not a good day" was a gross understatement. She hadn't seen him this bad for weeks. He was curled so tightly she couldn't see his face. "String?" she asked softly. "String, it's Elena. What's wrong?"

Of course he didn't answer. She sat down next to him on the narrow bed and put her hands on his shoulders. His whole body was quivering, either with fear or tension. Gently she rubbed his back. That seemed to calm him slightly, but when she took her hands away he began to shake again. She bent down and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly and rocking him. "String, Stringling, hush. It's okay. It's all right. Quiet now. Elena's here." She rested her chin on top of his brown hair and wondered what in the world had happened to him. She'd seen him in every condition from totally apathetic to practically raving, but this ‒ this was something new.

Finally he began to relax. She let him go and helped him to sit up. There were tear marks on his face, and she pulled out a tissue and wiped them off. "Better?"

He tried to sit straighter and scrubbed at his face with one hand in an endearingly childlike fashion, even managing to give her a hint of a self-conscious smile.

Then ‒ it all changed.

_There it was again. That sound. Coming for him. The black machine, coming out of the sky. Coming to crush him. The black machine . . . _

He began screaming.

Elena couldn't quiet him. She couldn't even hold onto him. She hit the panic button by the bed, and a moment later there were two nurses and three orderlies in the room.

"Can't you give him something?" she demanded from one of the nurses.

The other woman shook her head. "He's got no orders for sedatives, and there's no doctor around. We'll have to get him downstairs." With practised ease they wrapped the thrashing man up in the bed coverings, tightly enough that he was immobilized, with a wad of sheet stuffed hastily into his mouth to stop him from screaming loudly enough to disturb everyone in the building. Then they bundled him into a wheelchair and hurried him down to the basement.

They put him in a deep tub and filled it with cold water and kept him there until he calmed down. The treatment had always seemed barbaric to Elena, like something out of a Victorian madhouse, but at least it was effective. She hung onto him to make sure he didn't slide under the surface and drown, getting nearly as wet as String in the process. She was peeling off his soaked clothing and drying him off after they'd lifted him out of the tub when the nurse in charge reappeared to say that Dr. McCutcheon still hadn't returned his page, so there was still no authorization to give any sedative. "He'd better stay down here tonight. There's not enough staff to cope if he goes berserk like that again. And when you've gotten him settled, I need you upstairs."

There were several bedrooms in the basement. They were more like jail cells than the conventional rooms upstairs, with no windows, no furniture other than a bed with heavy-duty restraints. They were also almost soundproof, meant as temporary quarters for the most violent and disruptive patients.

Elena looked at String, down on the bare floor with his head on her lap. He was shivering hard, but she thought that was with cold now, not fear. He had that blank stare again. "But ‒ "

"Forget it, Elena. Just get him into that bed and make sure he doesn't get out of it again. And put a diaper on him, because he's there for the night unless I hear from McCutcheon, and those night orderlies aren't going to clean him up if he pees himself."

One of the orderlies helped her to get him in a bed. She covered him with a sheet and blanket and then carefully fastened all the straps. His unclothed body felt like ice wherever she touched it and he was completely unresponsive to his surroundings. Dunking him in the cold bath had jolted him out of his frenzy, but what had replaced it was almost as unsettling. It was like putting a corpse to bed, except that there would have been no need to use restraints on a corpse. Not that there was probably any need to use them now either, but if she didn't put them on and String went wild again, she would be in a huge amount of trouble, not to mention that String could well hurt himself.

She asked the orderly to get her a second blanket and tucked it carefully over him, in the hope that the extra warmth would be comforting, and that was all she could do for him.

Wearily Elena went back upstairs and spent the next three hours trying to spoonfeed supper into two elderly Alzheimer's patients. It wasn't until almost the end of her shift that she had a chance to look at the message Dr. Fairling had left her.

"Mr. Vine became extremely agitated at mention of a helicopter. Please do not mention the subject of a helicopter or any kind of aircraft to him again. It is not in his own best interest at this time."

Elena rarely swore. "No shit," she muttered.

--------------------

_He was trapped, alone in the cold darkness._

_Where was the black machine? Was it coming back? Could it find him in the dark?_

_He knew it could see in the dark. But if he kept as still as death and shut his eyes, maybe he could stay hidden. Maybe it wouldn't notice him._

_He wanted to whimper in fear, but clenched his jaw tightly shut on the sound._

_Keep still!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Elena returned to work on Monday morning, feeling bruised and battered both literally and figuratively_._ Something had set String off while he was in her care, something that had terrified him, and she had no idea what it was or if it would happen again. And in the process he'd managed to land a couple of pretty heavy blows on her face. She looked like someone's abused wife.

She had a look at his chart before going to his room. It looked like Dr. McCutcheon had finally deigned to answer his pager on Saturday morning, and had okayed enough Seconal to keep her patient down for a good forty-eight hours. She guessed that he hadn't wanted to be bothered for the rest of the weekend.

At least they'd brought String back to his own room. He was still groggy, which made getting him out of bed and into the bathroom more difficult than usual, but she reasoned that at least it was better than being punched in the face. Luisa had left a diaper on him, which he'd managed not to soil; he was fastidious as a cat in that regard. She helped him relieve himself, then bathed and shaved him, got him dressed and brought him his breakfast. He could barely hold the spoon for his cereal. Patiently she guided his hand back and forth from the bowl to his mouth until everything was eaten.

All that took nearly twice as long as usual. Outside the sun was finally shining, and it was a warm day for this late in September. She draped a jacket around his shoulders, made sure the lap belt on his chair was fastened in case he started to slide, and wheeled him outside, hoping the fresh air would revive him. As she slowly pushed him around the grounds of the clinic, she was pleased to see him gradually becoming more alert. His head lifted and he took deep breaths of the crisp nights had been cold lately, and the trees on the hillsides were in the full glory of a New England fall.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Elena commented, seeing that String's eyes were fixed, as usual, on the countryside beyond the chain link fence. She had no idea if that was what he was really looking at, but decided to see if she could draw him out of his habitual silence.

"They're pretty," he agreed. "Nice colors."

She was surprised and pleased at his quick, casual response; it sounded almost conversational.

"You said before the trees are different where you come from." She tried for an oblique approach. Maybe, just maybe, she could prise another snippet of information from him ‒ for him. "I'm from Pennsylvania. I can't imagine not having colors like this every fall. Are there lots of trees where you're from?"

There was a long pause while he frowned, seeming to grapple with the question. At last he said slowly, "Pines. There're lots of pine trees. All over the mountainside, around the . . . " His voice trailed off.

"Around the what, String?" she asked gently.

The spark had gone out. He was back to staring.

Elena sighed, and wheeled him back indoors.

---------------------

She waited for another day when he seemed alert, and produced an atlas of the United States that she'd gotten out of the library. Time for some rudimentary geography.

She opened the book on his lap. "Do you want to look at this, String?"

He flipped a few pages, seeming to be somewhat interested. "It's a book of maps of the whole country, so you can see what every state looks like. Have you ever seen a map before?"

That got her a sardonically raised eyebrow and a look that said, What kind of an idiot do you think I am. _Be careful_, she thought. _You know he doesn't like being talked to like a baby._ _You don't want him to throw the book at you. _But it was hard when she couldn't tell how much he understood. "Okay, sorry. I guess you have. Remember I told you the other day I'm from Pennsylvania? That's right here." She turned the pages until she got to Pennsylvania, pointing out the rough location of her home town. "Ever been to Pennsylvania, String?"

He shook his head.

"How about New York City? Practically everyone's been to New York City. Can you find it on the map for me?"

He flipped pages, unhesitatingly pointing out New York City.

"Have you ever been there?"

"Yeah."

"What did you think of it?"

"Too many people," he answered succinctly. "Too noisy."

"Well, it is pretty crowded," she agreed, inwardly elated at this one small sign of a breakthrough. "The museums are good, though. And the ‒ "

"Where are we now?" he cut in.

"New Hampshire."

"New Hampshire?" he repeated, looking stunned. He paged back in the atlas to find the right map, and sat staring at it.

"That's right. Didn't you know?"

"No ‒ I ‒ what am I doing here? I don't live here. I've never been to New Hampshire."

"You know this is a clinic, don't you? The Green Hills Clinic?"

He nodded.

"Well, then. You were hurt, and your doctor decided this was the best place for you."

His face darkened. "That's what _she_ said. The doctor. She said I'd had an accident. I don't remember it. I don't remember getting here. It's so far from ‒ from ‒ "

"From the place with the pine trees and the mountainside?" she asked gently.

He nodded.

"Well, let's see if we can figure out where that is." She turned to the map of the whole country and drew a finger across the page heading away from New England. South? That didn't sound like pines and mountains. "Uh ‒ how about Colorado?"

He shook his head, looking dazed, although whether from the effort of trying to remember his home or astonishment at finding himself living in some part of the country he apparently knew nothing about, she had no idea.

"Wyoming? Look at the book, String. Do you think it could be Wyoming?"

"Don't know," he muttered. "I don't ‒ I can't ‒ "

_It was fading again, just like before, the mental vision of the lake, even his ability to think about the lake. He clenched his hands into fists and pressed them to either side of his head, trying to keep the vision in place, trying to understand what she was saying to him, trying to remember what she had already told him about where he was ‒ New Hampshire ‒ he had to remember that, it was the only thing he knew for certain . . . _

"Montana?" asked Elena, a bit desperately. "String, did you live in Montana?"

_Montana, where was that? Where was he?_

_------------------  
_

She tried again a few days later, not mentioning the subject of where his home might be but instead trying to get him to point out places in the east he might have visited. He'd obviously been to New York ‒ although the only recollections of it that she could prise out of him were the Statue of Liberty and some deli with really good smoked salmon ‒ and Washington, although that was even sketchier. He did know the national cemetery at Arlington, though. "All those white stones on the hillside," he said soberly.

Maybe that meant he was military. He looked like the right age to have been in Viet Nam. She asked him if he knew anyone buried there, and he nodded yes. She was tempted to ask if he'd fought in Viet Nam, but decided it was better not to. She knew a few men who had been there, and didn't want to risk wading into such troubled waters. Better to fish for what she hoped would be more pleasant memories.

He could also describe fragments of a hiking trip in what sounded like the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia, and watching the sun rise at a beach that could have been practically anywhere on the eastern seaboard. Last winter Elena had scraped together enough money to spend a week in St. Petersburg, sharing an apartment near the beach with three friends. She described her vacation briefly, which String seemed to enjoy, and asked him if he'd ever gone south in the winter. He pointed out a spot on the map near Miami, but his one recollection of the place was of drinking in an odd-sounding bar with a huge fake swordfish on the roof. He'd been with friends, he said. For some reason this memory seemed to be more raw than the others, even Arlington. Elena stayed silent, not daring to try prompting him, as he tried to remember the names and faces. When he didn't succeed, he faded out again, just as he had done before.

That was as much as she could wheedle out of him. The next time she produced the atlas he scowled and knocked it to the floor, apparently tired of the game.

She took the atlas back to the library. It might not have accomplished what she had hoped it would, but at least they had managed to have a couple of reasonably coherent conversations.

-------------------

A few days later, while she was wheeling him past the nurses' station on the way out to the lounge after breakfast, he suddenly said, "Wait." He reached back with one hand to brush her wrist, making sure he got her attention. Elena stopped, puzzled. "What is it, String?"

"Ssh." He cocked his head, listening. Elena suddenly realized that someone had left a radio turned on, low, at the nurses' station. Instead of the easy-listening type music it was normally tuned to, there was a classical piece playing. She hadn't noticed it, but String evidently had. The music was intricate, measured, with a kind of restrained happiness to it, played by what she assumed was a violin.

"What was it?" she asked when the piece had ended.

"Bach's cello suite number one," he said casually. "The prelude."

"Oh," she said, feeling rather stupid, then, "I thought it was a violin."

"Nope. Cello. Pretty, wasn't it?"

"I guess. I don't know anything about classical music. You seem to know a lot." At least he'd been able to identify the piece, which was more than most people Elena knew could have done. She held her breath, not daring to ask him directly what he did know about it.

"Practically all the big-name classical composers wrote something for cello. You should try listening to Bach sometime. Or Haydn, he wrote a well-known cello concerto. Or Prokofiev, if you want something more modern. I've got a record somewhere . . . " He trailed off.

"A record of what, String? Of cello music?" she asked softly, after a moment.

He shook his head. It was gone again.

"Well, I'd like to listen to it," said Elena with a sigh, "when you remember where it is."

------------------------

Then they had an early heavy snowfall, and Elena borrowed a jacket for him and took him outside, parked him next to a snowbank formed by the plow, and teased him into a snowball fight. At first she made herself a broad target to make it easy for him, but soon discovered that he had a deadly accurate aim. When she finally called it quits and came over to his chair, he surprised her by leaning forward and solicitously brushing the remnants of his ammunition from her coat.

She made another discovery then - he had the sweetest smile she'd ever seen.

-------------------------

She was due to take some vacation at the end of the month ‒ ever since String had arrived at Green Hills in mid-summer, none of his caregivers had been allowed to take more than an occasional day off, aside from weekends ‒ but before she left she decided to try an experiment.

She helped him to settle into bed for his afternoon rest, then produced a picture she'd found in a magazine. Her palms were sweating. If this went wrong, she would have just caused String a huge amount of anguish and herself a heap of trouble.

"Do you know what this is?" she asked, as casually as she could.

It was a photograph of a small float plane landing on a lake surrounded by trees in autumn foliage. The plane was painted bright red and yellow and looked as friendly as an airplane could ‒ nothing like the "black machine" of String's nightmares.

He took the picture from her, smiling. She began to breathe again.

She'd hoped he'd be able to tell her it was an airplane. But his answer stunned her. "Hey, one of those old de Havilland Beavers," he said. "Kinda cute, isn't it?"

"A what?" she said blankly.

"A de Havilland Beaver," he repeated patiently. "They've been around practically since World War II. They were built for flying in Canada, way up north in the bush. No runways up there for them to land on, but there're lots of lakes. It would be kinda fun to fly one of these things up there."

"I see." For the first time his conversational skills were outstripping hers, and she was delighted. "I've never thought of a plane being cute."

"Well, sure. Some of them are beauties, and some are big hulking brutes, and some of them are just ‒ cute."

Wondering if she was rushing in where angels feared to tread, she said, "Have you ever flown a plane, String?"

"Sure I have ‒ I ‒ "

Too much. The picture slid out of his hand. "Oh God, it's going, Elena." He groaned, pressing both hands to his head the way she'd seen him do before, as if he was trying to hold reality in by pure force. "I know I've flown," he said hoarsely. "Thousands of hours. Hueys in Nam. Everything. Why can't I . . . "

Like before, his voice trailed off. When he finally let his hands drop, his eyes were dull and staring again.

Elena picked up the picture of the red and yellow plane. The sight of String trapped in his own personal fog was as distressing as ever, but this time, she thought, there were definitely signs of improvement. That had to be a good thing. "Don't worry, String," she said, giving him a reassuring hug before straightening the blanket and making sure he was set for his nap. "It'll come back."

But she had to admit sadly that if in fact he ever had been a pilot, it was extremely unlikely that he was ever going to fly again.

---------------------

She went home with no intention of thinking about work for the next week. Her tiny basement apartment was desperately in need of cleaning, she wanted to get a decent haircut, had several friends to catch up with, and there was a tottering stack of books on her night table waiting to be read.

She lasted until Thursday before sitting down with an oversized mug of coffee and a notebook and started writing down everything she knew about her patient.

Name: Tommy Vine (aka "String").

Age: Early to mid-thirties.

Diagnosis:

Hmm. She was still going under the assumption of a car crash or something similar. Yet beyond some minor cuts and scrapes there'd been no sign of physical trauma when he'd arrived at the clinic. Also odd, when she started to think about it, was the effect of the injury. She'd looked after several paraplegic patients, and String certainly wasn't typical. He had normal sensation in his lower body, and normal bladder and bowel control. She wasn't going to try guessing whether or not he had normal sexual function as well, but thought it was a fairly safe bet that he did.

It was more as if he'd simply forgotten how to move his legs.

She wrote down "Spinal cord injury" and put three question marks after it.

If his physical condition was puzzling, his mental state was even murkier. When he'd arrived he'd been nonresponsive most of the time, staring off into space with a blank look on his face. He'd gone out without leaving a light on. The only times he'd seemed at all aware of his surroundings he'd grown extremely hostile, almost violent. He might not have known where he was or why he was there, but he did know that he sure as hell didn't want to be there.

As the weeks went by he had definitely improved. He still wasn't very communicative, and she didn't know whether he couldn't talk, or wouldn't. When he did, he could speak clearly and concisely, with no sign of the difficulty she would have expected from someone with a serious head injury, except that he couldn't seem to concentrate for any longer than a few minutes at a time.

And, of course, there was the near-total amnesia.

It dawned on her that nearly every time he'd begun to talk about something that was intrinsically important to him, to knowing who he really was, he slipped away. Things like trying to tell her where he lived. Describing his home, with the lake and mountainside and trees. Flying planes – thousands of hours of flying, he'd said. That sounded like something he did, or had done, for a living. Things that were presumably not so important, like a long-ago trip to New York, he could recall more easily.

And it seemed to both frustrate and frighten him. He knew that he was being sucked out of the real world and he couldn't stop it.

And then, to top it all off, there was that whole thing about the "black machine" that, according to String, was coming from the sky to get him. Fortunately that had only happened twice, to her knowledge. The second time had been while Luisa was there, and one of the nurses had promptly shot him full of sedative again ‒ there was a standing order for that now. Was this black machine some kind of airplane? Had he been in a plane crash?

She really wished she could talk to Dr. Fairling about him. She wanted to help him. She had spent three years looking after patients at the clinic, and String was the first one whose life she really thought she might be able to make a difference to. But asking questions about patients or their treatment was not encouraged at Green Hills, especially from those at her menial level.

The best she could hope for was that eventually he'd be able to remember the name of someone who knew him, who could come and take him home, because she was feeling more strongly than ever that String was never going to have a chance to get well as long as he stayed where he was.

------------------

Elena had no idea how close that hope had already come to being realized.

On the first day of her vacation, Luisa had gotten String out of bed and brought him his breakfast. She'd been pushing his wheelchair out to the lounge when a commotion abruptly broke out ‒ two of the other patients had gotten into a shouting match over something, and it was quickly progressing into a shoving contest. Luisa left String where he was to help separate and calm the combatants.

She had left his wheelchair right by the nurses' station at the entrance to the bedroom wing. The staff on duty were all involved with the brawl. String looked speculatively at the unguarded telephone. As if moving by its own volition, his hand went out and lifted the receiver.

He dialled the numbers without knowing what they were. If he'd been asked, he couldn't even have said what he was doing.

One . . . eight one eight . . . seven eight five . . .

The phone on the other end rang four times, then a man's gruff voice said, "Santini Air."

_What?_ _He knew that voice. Who was it? What did "Santini Air" mean?_

"Who are you?" he whispered.

"Hello? Hello?" said the man loudly, sounding exasperated.

String looked at the phone, puzzled, then let the receiver drop back into the cradle.

When Luisa came back, he was sitting with his hands folded in his lap, staring straight in front of him.

---------------------

On the other side of the country, Dominic Santini hung up the silent phone and stood staring at it.

What the hell had that been about?

It wasn't as if they didn't get enough crank calls, or wrong numbers. But that funny faint whisper ‒ "Who are you?" ‒ that was just plain weird. Spooky.

He actually shivered.

He looked through the window of the office into the hangar, where Caitlin O'Shannessy was checking the Tyler mount on the Jet Ranger, getting ready for the first day of a week's filming they had booked. Life had to go on, even without String, no matter how joyless.

It occurred to Dominic that today was nearly four months to the day that they'd last seen him. He'd gone off on his motorcycle after work to visit a friend, one of the small group of his Viet Nam buddies that he kept in contact with. He'd never made it there, and the only sign of him had been the crashed remains of the bike at the bottom of a canyon, a mile or so from his buddy's place. Not all the resources of the cops and even the Firm had been able to turn up anything else. He sure as hell couldn't have just walked away from that. In fact, if he'd gone into the canyon along with the bike, then he'd probably been killed.

Then why couldn't they even find his body? Even that would have been better than the _not_ _knowing_. It was eerily like what had happened with St. John; and Dominic knew that he was now in exactly the same position String had been in all these years, grabbing at any straw, no matter how flimsy, that might offer a clue as to where he was now. If he let himself dwell on it, Dominic figured he could probably talk himself into believing that that whispering voice had been String's, running up long distance charges from beyond the grave.

He couldn't dwell on it, he told himself firmly, and levered himself out of the battered office chair. String was still alive, somewhere, and God willing, they would find him. Even if it cost Dominic Santini everything he had.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Karen stared at her patient in a frustration that bordered on fury. She couldn't believe she was having this fight with him again. She couldn't believe that he would be this stubborn.

Tuesday night the kitchen had served up plates of corned beef hash for supper. String had refused to touch it.

He'd also turned up his nose at the canned luncheon meat that appeared on Wednesday night.

She knew that Luisa, with her easy-going attitude that always managed to slide around trouble, wouldn't have bothered herself if he refused to eat, figuring he would when he wanted to. Elena would probably have gone out and cooked him a whole meal of his favorite foods. But on Thursday, when supper consisted of some kind of creamed ‒ something ‒ and yet again String refused to have anything to do with it, Karen's patience finally snapped.

She wheeled him back to his room and went back to the lounge for the food tray. When she returned to his room, she found him sitting with his arms folded and a grimly implacable look on his face. He didn't say a word to declare that battle was joined. He didn't have to.

She mentally reviewed her options, and decided that tackling him on her own maybe wasn't a good idea right then. She went off and found one of the orderlies, who looked as if he could probably pick String up one-handed, and between them they swiftly got the wheelchair's arm restraints on him.

The orderly left. The look String gave her was enough to make her actually back up a step, even though he could barely even move a finger.

She pulled herself together. "Not this time, Mr. String," she told him. "You're not getting away with that now."

She slapped the food tray in his lap, grabbed his nostrils and pinched them shut. With the other hand, she scooped up a spoonful of food and held it to his mouth. When he finally had to open his mouth to breathe, she rammed the spoon in. He shook his head as hard as he could. She hung on and managed to get another couple of spoonfuls in before he started to choke.

"Karen! What's going on here?"

Shit. It was Anne Marie Gatling, the senior nurse on the evening shift.

"He won't eat his supper," she said defensively. "This is the third night in a row."

"Oh, for God's sake." The nurse surveyed Karen and her patient. He was still coughing violently, and there was food all over his lap and shirtfront, on Karen, and on the floor. "It must be a full moon tonight. They're all starting to go crazy."

She bent over String and in honeyed tones said, "What's the matter, Mr. Vine? Why don't you want your supper?"

Finally String managed to stop coughing. "Go to hell," he snarled, looking her straight in the eye.

Anne Marie backed up a step, just like Karen had done earlier, then recovered herself and tried again. "Now, now, that's not very polite. You know you're causing Karen a lot of trouble, and she only wants you to eat your delicious supper." Personally, the nurse thought it smelled vile, but she wasn't the one having to eat it.

That time, he didn't even make the effort to swear at her. His look was a visual profanity.

Anne Marie sighed. "All right, Mr. Vine, you seem to want to be difficult. But Karen says that this is the third night in a row you haven't eaten, and we only want to do what's best for you."

"Then leave me alone," he snapped.

"As soon as you've eaten, Mr. Vine." She stood over him with arms folded. String stared straight ahead, a scowl on his face. Finally Anne Marie tried holding a spoonful of the food up to his mouth, but he still obviously had no intention of eating.

She sighed again. "I haven't got time for this. Believe me, Mr. Vine, this is for your own good. Karen, hold his head steady, will you?"

Between the two of them they managed to get most of the meal down him, or at least transferred it off the plate to somewhere else. The nurse looked ruefully down at the front of what had been a clean uniform and said over the sound of String's renewed coughing, "Karen, when you've got all this cleaned up, I think you'd better put him in a bed downstairs for the night. We've got enough problems around here tonight, I don't want to be worried about him doing anything to disturb the other patients. And maybe it'll make him think twice about doing this sort of thing again."

Official sanction for payback. Karen tried not to look delighted. She didn't bother telling Anne Marie that so far, nothing had stopped this man from trying to do exactly what he pleased when he felt like being a pain in the ass.

She cleaned up the worst of the mess from herself, her patient and the floor, and summoned the orderly again. Just as they were about to leave the room, String started to retch, and a moment later vomited up most of what she and the nurse had managed to shovel into him.

"Oh, for God's sake!" she yelled, barely restraining herself from giving him a good hard slap. Roughly she wiped off his face, cleaned the floor ‒ again ‒ and swiftly wheeled him down to one of the cell-like rooms in the basement. With the orderly's help she stripped off his soiled clothes, dumping everything into a laundry bin, then got him onto the bed and put a diaper on him. He still tried to fight her. He was obviously running out of the strength to do it with, but not the determination.

While she was pulling the absorbent pad into place, her hand accidentally brushed against his genitals. He grunted and tried to twist away from her.

"Felt that, did you, big boy?" she asked with a malicious grin. She touched him again, fondling him for a moment. He gasped and closed his eyes, his whole body tense. It occurred to her that it could be a lot of fun to tease him. From the look of him, it probably wouldn't take long for her to have him begging. "I'll bet you miss this, don't you? Newsflash, you can do this for yourself, y'know."

The orderly, looking bored, snapped his gum loudly. Karen sighed. Some other time. She finished with the diaper and pulled up the blanket; she and the orderly fastened the restraining straps. There. That should keep him out of trouble for the rest of the night.

-----------------

_What the hell was in that stuff they made me eat?_

Flat on his back and unable to move anything but his head, String threw up twice more through the night. His stomach cramped. It seemed to be harder to breathe, and he began to feel feverish. Worst of all, he'd had several bouts of diarrhea that he just hadn't been able to control.

Being dead had to be better than this.

He hoped he would pass out, but didn't. He was sodden, stinking, and more helpless than a baby, and sometime in the night he broke down and began to cry with sheer frustration.

Then he tried to distract himself by thinking about that place with the lake and the pine trees and the mountains. _Concentrate. Hold on and don't let go._ _What color is the water in the sunlight? _

_Blue-green. With the reflection of the trees in it. If it's been a dry summer and the water level is low, you can see the rocks on the bottom in places. You can see right down to where the fish hide._

_What else is there? _

_An eagle, swooping down over the lake. She casts a huge winged shadow on the water's surface. She flies away, a shining fish clutched in sharp talons. Her cry echoes off the mountainside._

_A large dock. The wooden rail is warm when bare arms lean on it. Splintery, too, in places. Should fix that._

_Shallow steps lead away from the water, up through the pines to a cabin. Built of logs, with a stone chimney, a wide shady porch across the front._

_Open the door._

But he couldn't go any further than that. The vision shivered, like the surface of the lake when a stone was dropped in, and broke up. He could only see the dimness of his prison, lit by the light from the hallway coming through the square of wire mesh-reinforced glass in the heavy door.

At least he was still in the real world, not lost in the foggy limbo where he couldn't think or feel and nothing mattered. It was as if present misery was keeping him pinned to reality.

_The voice on the telephone. The man who'd said "Santini Air". Who was it? What was "Santini Air"? He knew the man who'd spoken. Something about the voice felt reassuring, comforting, even though the tone of voice had been anything but._

_An older man, a good thirty pounds or more overweight, wearing a red satin ball cap over thinning gray hair. I know that man, know him well. What is his name?_

Under the blanket, his fists clenched in frustration.

He forced them to relax. This was far further than he'd ever travelled before along that road that led back to sanity.

It was a place where they didn't want him to be, but he was going there anyway. In spite of the mess of shit and vomit he was lying in, in spite of the straps holding him down, in spite of his legs that didn't work, he felt a small glow of triumph.

A while later, he fell asleep through sheer exhaustion.

------------------

Even the easy-going Luisa was shocked when she found him in the morning. She'd arrived late for work, then was waylaid by demands for help by the rest of the day staff, who were trying to cope with several cases of what seemed like mild food poisoning, probably brought on by the suspect supper from the night before. Nobody had thought to check on String during the night, to see if he too might have been unwell. By the time she opened the door to the basement room, it was only a few minutes before String was due for his weekly therapy session with Dr. Fairling.

She was wiping his face clean with a damp towel when the doctor arrived, carrying a medical bag and String's chart. She placed a small chair next to the bed and told Luisa to go. For once Luisa protested. Her patient was a mess, and didn't look well. The doctor overruled her.

Luisa left reluctantly, and Dr. Fairling looked down at String, noting the red-rimmed eyes, flushed face, and evident breathing difficulties. She took his temperature, measured his pulse, and listened to his chest with a stethoscope. She suspected that he'd inhaled some of his own vomit through the night and was suffering from a degree of aspiration pneumonia, as well as the aftereffects of the food poisoning. "Well, Mr. Vine, you certainly seem to have gotten yourself into difficulties."

"Name's not Vine," he snarled, still managing some defiance in spite of how wretched he had to be feeling.

Her reply came back, quick and harsh as a whiplash. _"Your name is what I decide it is."_

He shrank back, but still managed to roll his head back and forth against the thin pillow in a gesture of denial.

"You have no name except the one I gave you. You will only walk if I tell you that you can walk. You have nothing left of your own life."

"You're wrong! I can remember ‒ " He shut up, knowing he'd just said too much.

She bent over him, eyes boring into his. "What can you remember, Tommy? Tell me."

This time he kept his mouth shut. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at her.

She cupped his chin in one hand and gave his head a shake. "Tell me what you remember."

He stayed silent, teeth gritted. He wanted to swear at her, but didn't dare open his mouth in case the words she wanted to hear came out in spite of him.

"Very well." She searched briefly in her bag and pulled out a syringe and needle and a small plastic pack containing a single unlabelled vial. She drew the contents of the vial up into the syringe and tugged the blanket away from his right arm.

"Don't," he whispered. "Not more."

Without replying she cleaned off an area of skin with an alcohol swab and briskly administered the injection, then replaced everything in her bag and sat back to study his chart while she waited for the drug to take effect. Some of what was noted there made her frown. This whole procedure was extremely risky and over-complicated in her view, but it was the way her employer wanted the matter handled. Not surprisingly, given his past history, Tommy Vine was proving to be resistant. With the treatment he'd already received, his brain should have been little more than mush by now. She only hoped that it didn't end up that way permanently. If so, all this work would have been for nothing, and her employer would be extremely unhappy.

-------------------

An hour later, she said softly, coaxingly, "Tell me your name."

"Ss-String . . . "

She picked up his right hand and gave the fold of skin between his thumb and forefinger a sharp pinch. She didn't exert very much pressure, but his nerve endings had been sensitized by the drug and the sensation was amplified to an almost excruciating pain. He gave a harsh cry.

"No. Try again."

She waited patiently for a moment, and finally he whispered, "T-tommy . . . "

"Tommy what?"

". . . Tommy . . . Vine . . . "

"That's better, Tommy. Well done. Now tell me what it is you can remember from before you came here."

_A beautiful place. A lake, trees, a cabin by the shore . . . _

_The waters of the lake closed over his head._

_He drowned._

_-------------------  
_

A few minutes later, Dr. Fairling picked up her bag and left the room. On her way out of the clinic she stopped at the nurses' station and wrote orders for her patient to be given oxygen to help ease the effects of the aspiration pneumonia and IV saline for the dehydration caused by the food poisoning; she also spoke sternly to the nurse in charge about the necessity for being more vigilant about patient welfare. Then she told Luisa she could go and attend to Mr. Vine.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Elena returned to work on Monday morning filled with a missionary-like zeal to help String get better. Tucked in her bag was another library book, this one a recognition guide to aircraft, with plenty of photographs. She wanted to try him with a helicopter this time.

What she saw when she opened the door to his room made her feel as if she'd just been punched in the stomach. This wasn't the same man she had seen the last day she'd been here, who had talked easily and knowledgeably about the old Beaver float plane. This was the man who had arrived at the clinic in the summer as little more than an apathetic shell. It was as if the months in between hadn't happened. "String, it's me, Elena," she said to him tentatively. "How are you?"

Nothing.

She came over to the bedside and folded her arms around him gently. "Stringling, what's happened to you?" She knew she was talking to herself.

She had to get one of the orderlies to help her bathe him, because he couldn't or wouldn't move a muscle for himself. Afterwards she put his hospital gown back on him, because it was easier than getting him properly dressed and she doubted that he would care today about what he was wearing. She poured enough milk on his breakfast cereal to make a thin mush and slowly and laboriously spoonfed it into him, then got him into his chair and wheeled him out to the lounge, where he could look out the sliding glass doors. His head lolled. After a while she turned the chair around so it faced the TV, which several of the other patients were already watching, lined up in a glassy-eyed row. A cartoon cat was being outsmarted by a mouse. She hoped the sound or the movement would catch his attention. They didn't.

Four weeks later, she returned the book to the library, unread. String had barely made a sound the entire month. He'd only spoken three times; each time it was when a helicopter had flown past overhead. Then he'd had a fit, screaming incoherently. "The black machine" were the only words anyone could understand, that and the fact that he seemed to think it was coming to kill him, before a nurse shot him full of sedatives and he lapsed back into his zombie-like state.

Dr. Fairling came to see him two days before Christmas, and announced to the clinic staff that she would be away for three months and was only to be notified if there was an emergency. Elena figured sourly that she was heading somewhere warm for the winter. Nevertheless, she was glad the woman was gone; she was sure her so-called therapy sessions had done String no good whatsoever.

The day before Christmas she cut his hair; the military-short style he'd been sporting when he'd arrived had gotten relatively shaggy. She trimmed his nails, shaved him especially carefully, and dressed him in the Christmas present she'd gotten for him, a pair of warm flannel pyjamas. She told him as she worked that maybe someone would come to see him on Christmas Day, and she wanted him to be ready for company. What the hell, it was supposed to be the season for miracles, wasn't it? Was it too much to ask that someone from the outside world would be able to find their way in here?

Nobody came on Christmas Day. But at the beginning of January, Tommy Vine finally had a visitor.

------------------

"I'm sorry, ma'am," said the receptionist to the woman standing in front of the glass partition in the entrance lobby of the Green Hills clinic. "But all visitors have to have an appointment. And Mr. Vine isn't allowed to see anyone at all. Doctor's orders."

"Oh, that's all right. I've got written consent from Dr. Fairling ‒ it's in here somewhere . . . " The woman rummaged briefly in a large leather shoulder bag and produced a letter. She handed it over and waited patiently while the receptionist perused it, frowning, then called one of the nurses. While they waited for her to arrive, the receptionist covertly inspected the stranger. She was probably in her early thirties, very pretty, with long blonde hair, large blue-gray eyes, and lightly tanned, exquisite skin, dressed in silk trousers and a lightweight leather jacket that was no match for the New Hampshire winter. There was a nasty wind outside that was blowing the snow in furious eddies, and the woman looked chilled to the bone.

The nurse arrived and scanned the letter in turn. It was certainly signed by Dr. Fairling, and gave consent for the bearer, one Ann Strete, to visit with Tommy Vine. The nurse looked at her. "Are you a relative, Miss Strete?"

"No. Just an old friend."

"I see. Could I see some ID, please?"

Ann handed over a driver's license. The nurse glanced at it briefly and handed it back. "All right. Come this way, please." She pressed a button under the counter; there was a buzz and the click of the heavy glass door unlocking. Ann stepped through and into the clinic.

She followed the nurse to the lounge, her eyes darting from side to side, taking in the soothing color scheme, the cheery prints on the walls, the heavy locked doors. They cringed away from the sight of the patients: a fairly representative sampling of the people living there, but not a very cheery, upbeat group. One elderly man sat rocking ceaselessly back and forth, while another man, much younger, walked around and around the room on his own predetermined track, muttering to himself. Two old ladies were watching cartoons on the TV, while a middle-aged woman dozed, slack-mouthed. It looked to Ann like some kind of junkyard for wrecked and worn-out human beings.

The nurse noticed her distress. "A lot of our patients have some form of dementia," she explained. "We need to make sure they don't wander off. All these locks are for their own safety, really. And this weather, you know, it tends to make everyone a bit depressed."

Ann wasn't sure she believed that. She had reason to know that not every patient here suffered from dementia.

The man called Tommy Vine was in his wheelchair, staring out through the sliding glass doors of the lounge at the winter landscape, his back turned to the doorway. The nurse went over and turned the chair around. "Look, Mr. Vine, here's an old friend of yours to see you. Do you remember Miss Strete?"

Whether he did or didn't, there was no change in the unfocussed stare. Ann hung back as if afraid to come any nearer. The nurse gave her a professionally encouraging smile. "It's okay. You can come closer."

Karen, who until now had been paying far more attention to the TV than to her patient, looked at Ann in amazement.

"This is Karen," said the nurse. "She's one of Mr. Vine's caregivers. She'll help you if you need anything." She offered another smile and left.

Well, I hope she doesn't think I'll be able to interpret Blank Stare for her, thought Karen, or get a message to whatever planet this guy's living on.

Ann Strete came a few steps closer. Unexpectedly, she found that her heart was hammering in her chest. A moment ago she'd been shivering in her light jacket; now she'd broken out in a sweat. "Um ‒ Tommy?" she said hesitantly. "Do you remember me?"

There was no reply, not even a hint of recognition. Oh God, she thought. I didn't think it would be this bad. "Is he always like this?" she asked Karen.

The other woman shrugged. "He has good days and bad days. He seemed to be doing a bit better back in the fall. The last month or so, he's been mostly like this." Except when he's screaming the place down, she thought, but prudently didn't say so.

"Uh ‒ is there anywhere I could just talk to him in private for a few minutes?"

Karen wasn't supposed to leave him unattended, but her favorite soap started in ten minutes. "Sure. I'll take him to his room." She pushed the wheelchair out of the lounge, Ann following behind, eyes still nervous. She flinched at the sound of the heavy door closing and locking behind them at the entrance to the bedroom area.

Karen parked the chair in the middle of String's room, pointed out the button on the wall for Ann to push if she needed help, and departed.

Ann forced herself to take a good long look at the man in the wheelchair. She'd thought she'd known what to expect; after all, she'd seen Dr. Fairling's reports. But she hadn't been ready for this.

She came closer and knelt down in front of him, taking one of his cold hands in hers. "Hawke?" she tried. "Do you remember me? It's Angelica. Angelica Horn."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Oh, God, God, _God. Now_ what am I going to do?

Ann lay on the bed in her motel room, fists clenched. The chill that she'd felt as soon as she set foot in the Green Hills Nursing Home and Clinic had deepened as soon as she'd seen Stringfellow Hawke sitting in that wheelchair. She didn't think she was ever going to feel warm again.

She should have known. John Bradford Horn hadn't told her anything about having captured Hawke; she'd only found out by the merest chance, a fragment of overheard phone conversation when he thought she was nowhere around. After that, she'd had to wait for an opportunity to go through his records. And she'd found the whole thing.

How Horn had kept Hawke under surveillance for several weeks before engineering that motorcycle crash in the Los Angeles canyon. How they'd scraped him up off the pavement and taken him, unconscious but otherwise relatively uninjured, to a safe house, where Dr. Fairling had immediately begun treating him using the new and improved regimen she'd apparently been working on since Hawke had escaped from them the last time. Potent drugs, hypnosis, the judicious application of pain for a bit of extra persuasion. _Can't the woman find anything better to do with her time?_ Angelica had thought, reading the description of what Hawke had been put through.

Her mind's eye kept seeing that ominous sentence in one of Dr. Fairling's reports ‒ _"The treatment has succeeded in almost completely eradicating all capability for independent thought in the subject."_

Yup. She should have known right there that coming to find Hawke was a bad idea.

"How could you do this to him? Again?" she asked the light in the ceiling.

What was it that John Bradford Horn wanted from Stringfellow Hawke? There were hints that he had another project afoot that would probably require a weapon on the scale of Airwolf, but no more than hints. Why grab Hawke so early? And why this whole charade of turning him into a vegetable and stashing him away in a loony bin on the other side of the country? Hawke had powerful friends; the longer he was missing, the more danger there was that they would figure out what had happened to him. If Horn wanted him to fly Airwolf, why not just hold him prisoner? Kidnap his best friends, or his dog, or whatever he valued the most, in order to coerce him to do whatever it was Horn needed him to do, rather than go through all this?

And what was it about that damned helicopter? What made it, and Hawke, the only two keys to success for whatever it was that Horn was trying to accomplish, if he was actually trying to accomplish anything at all? There were other helicopters out there. There were other pilots. Hell, John Bradford Horn had what amounted to his own private army.

The only answer she could think of was that he wanted Stringfellow Hawke so that he could grind him under his heel. Turn him into a pathetic creature stuck in a wheelchair to be gloated over, counted in the inventory along with all his other possessions. _Seventeen homes worldwide, probably thirty cars, two Learjets, twenty-three million dollars' worth of artwork, and, oh yeah, one mindless helicopter pilot who thought he was smarter than me._ Hawke had outwitted him ‒ twice ‒ blown up Horn's costly and supposedly impregnable base in Texas, and thwarted his later attempt to steal Airwolf. You just couldn't do that to John Bradford Horn and not know that sometime, somehow, he was going to do his utmost to destroy you. Only a handful of times to Ann's knowledge had anyone managed to beat or best the man, and each time he'd made it his business to ensure the other party paid for it, one way or another.

There were some signs that the situation with Hawke wasn't completely permanent, though. Obviously he couldn't fly in the shape he was in now, so if Horn did plan on using him as a pilot again, the conditioning must be reversible, at least to a certain degree. Horn would still need to keep him on a leash, but he would have to be sufficiently_ compos mentis_ to do his normal brilliant job of flying. Dr. Fairling had made it clear in her reports that they couldn't go too far. It was also plain that she'd found it difficult to overcome his resistance in the first place; and there were hints that it also hadn't been easy to strike a balance between keeping him oblivious and docile, and causing total, permanent mental breakdown. One of her most successful strategies appeared to have been implanting the idea into his subconscious that Airwolf itself was something to be feared. _If he hears a helicopter flying overhead, he becomes irrational with terror. He thinks it's coming to hunt him down and kill him._

Oh, how Horn must have enjoyed hearing that one.

Dr. Fairling had been a bit more vague about the reversal of the whole mess. She seemed to be pinning most of her faith in yet another drug, along with some heavy-duty hypnotic cutting and pasting. There were also some indications that, left to his own devices, there was a danger that Hawke might recover on his own, or at least regain some of that capability for independent thought. Which was why the doctor had told Horn explicitly that she'd thought it was a really bad idea for her to be pulled away now to work on another project.

_Some other poor soul whose brain needs to be pulled apart and then reassembled in a different order, no doubt. Daddy dearest, I am never, ever going to understand you._

_Maybe it's saner not to._

When she'd found that Dr. Fairling was leaving for Dubai the day after Christmas, she'd decided that it was time to take a trip to New Hampshire, and she put a considerable amount of ingenuity into getting the doctor's forged signature onto the letter that would get her into the clinic. She made the decision to go not as Angelica Horn, but as herself, Ann Strete. Her real name, the one she'd given up when she began playing the role of daughter in John Bradford Horn's script. The role whose sole purpose was to lure men into Horn's clutches, on command. Even though she knew what Horn's purpose was, and found it disgusting. Her conscience, or lack of it, hadn't been strong enough to make her give up all the perks that went along with the part: the clothes, the cars, the homes in exotic locations with every need catered to. It had even been worthwhile to put up with sex with Horn. Not that that happened very often. He only really got his thrills from controlling people. No, all things considered, it had been a decent tradeoff.

Until she met Stringfellow Hawke, and discovered for the first time a man that she didn't want to see enmeshed in Horn's megalomaniac schemes. The first time that she'd been truly unhappy when confronted with the handiwork of Dr. Fairling and her cohort of mad scientist types, and the first time that she'd seriously considered betraying her ersatz father.

She had no idea how Hawke might have felt about her after he'd managed to escape, but figured that the only reason he'd ever be happy to see her again would be if the encounter gave him the chance to put a bullet through her heart. She couldn't blame him. So she'd allowed Horn to drag her along with him when he went to ground after that debacle in Texas, and life went on.

Hawke, in his right mind, probably wanted her dead. If Horn found out what she'd just done, he would certainly kill her. Even so, she'd decided to chance it. Call it a New Year's resolution.

And now she wasn't sure that her big, brave, defiant gesture was worth anything at all. In spite of what Dr. Fairling's grisly reports had said, she'd still harbored the hope that she would be able to talk to Hawke, make him understand how badly she felt about what had happened. Maybe she'd even wanted to lay the burden of forgiveness on him, hoping that he would see that it hadn't all been her fault, that she wasn't a completely evil person. Maybe, if she could think of a way to do it, she could pull him out of Horn's spider web.

But most of all she'd wanted to see the man that she'd claimed to want and to care about. And all she'd found was some guy who probably needed someone else to wipe him off when he used the toilet.

She should just turn right around and go back home again before Horn found out where she'd gone.

But could she really turn her back on Stringfellow Hawke again, and leave him there to rot? Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she thought there'd been a spark of life when she'd held his hand and told him who she was. Or it might have been when she'd told him who he was. Maybe he hadn't recognized her, maybe he just realized that here was someone from the outside world, who might take him back there with her.

The conditioning had to be reversible.

It was too bad that she could think of no easy way to get him out of that place and keep both of them safe long enough for him to recover on his own. Those powerful friends of his, they could help. But she had no idea how to contact them. You couldn't exactly look up a covert agency in the Yellow Pages.

Of course, she _could _look up Santini Air. But the people there ‒ Dominic Santini and that red-haired woman pilot she'd seen watching her at the hangar when she'd first pushed her way into Hawke's life ‒ might be even more likely to shoot her first and ask questions later.

She had a little time. She had tried to cover her tracks well enough that Horn, if he was sufficiently preoccupied with this thing in Dubai, wouldn't notice that she wasn't skiing in Aspen. She'd go back to the clinic until she could find Hawke on a good day. Maybe somebody there could help?

Yeah, right. They were probably all in Horn's pocket. In which case she was already dead.

Well, if she was, then she needed to decide ‒ and fast ‒ if she might as well spend her last hours trying to do something useful, or whether she should just run like hell.

-----------------

Elena was torn between delight in the fact that String had finally had a visitor, and disappointment at having missed her. The staff who had seen Ann Strete didn't think she'd be back. The clinic and its residents had obviously given her the creeps, and if she'd been expecting to see her "old friend" looking remotely normal, String would have been a big shock.

Elena couldn't blame her, but she desperately hoped the woman would come back.

The second week of January began. Most of the patients at the clinic came down with either a cold or flu. String developed a slight case of the sniffles and a major case of irritability. Both Karen and Luisa preferred him staring off into space; Elena was glad to see some sign of emotion, but after a few days wished it would take some form other than scowling and being generally uncooperative. Maybe the mystery woman's visit had stirred something up in his mind. If so, it didn't seem to be fond memories.

One afternoon he suddenly looked straight at her and said, "Who the hell _is_ she?"

It was about the first coherent thing he'd said for over a month, but she had no idea what he was talking about. "I don't know who you mean, String."

"She said her name was Angelica. I should know her. She told me my name is String ‒ String ‒ " His voice, between the cold and a month's disuse, was thick and harsh, and stumbled to a halt on the words.

"String what?" asked Elena softly.

He shook his head angrily. His right hand formed into a fist and thumped the arm of his chair. "Don't know. Can't remember." He drifted off.

Elena was jubilant. It was a start. Starting over, maybe. But anything was better than nothing.

More than ever, she wanted to have a talk with Ann Strete.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"Stringfellow Hawke," said Ann. "Your name is Stringfellow Hawke. I told you that last week. Don't you remember?"

String was trying. From her seat in an unobtrusive corner of the room, Elena could see that he was truly struggling to stay with them and understand what the other woman was telling him. She doubted that Ann realized it, though. She was starting to sound frustrated.

"You're a pilot for a little air service in Los Angeles that does charter flights and stunt flying for movies. You live on your own in a cabin in the mountains outside Los Angeles. You were in a motorcycle accident nearly six months ago. Then my so-called father and his pet doctor got their hands on you and drugged and hypnotized you until you couldn't remember anything, then they brought you here. My God, Hawke, I've already told you this at least three times! Why aren't you remembering?"

Elena had been thrilled when Ann had eventually shown up at the clinic again. She had arrived in the middle of the afternoon, just as Elena was about to take String back to his room for his afternoon rest. Not that he really needed it, but that hour was set in stone at the clinic, a time when the patients were safely locked away in their rooms and the staff could take a break, or change shift without disruption. The three of them went back to String's room, but unlike Karen, there was no way that Elena was leaving. Ann hadn't been happy about that; she said she needed to talk to Tommy Vine in private. Elena informed her that she was not allowed to leave her patient unattended with a visitor, and then sat down in her corner.

"Okay," Ann said finally. "But you have to promise that you won't tell anyone what you hear. It's a matter of life and death."

Elena was puzzled by this melodramatic claim. "Whose?" she asked.

"Mine," Ann replied bluntly. "Maybe his too."

"I won't say anything," she promised.

Ann rolled her eyes. "Right. How do I know you won't go running straight to Dr. Fairling?"

Elena was puzzled by that too. "Well, I won't. For one thing, she's gone and won't be back for a couple of months. But why should I, anyway?"

"Because Dr. Fairling is the reason Hawke is ‒ " She gestured at String. " ‒ the way he is. The reason he can't walk. The reason he can't remember his own name. And if she finds out I've been here, talking to him, I'm dead."

Elena took a deep breath. "I need to hear this. I always thought there was something wrong with the way she was treating him. If you know who he is and what's happened to him, then please, _please_, I want to hear it. And anyway," she added, sitting back as an unwelcome thought occurred to her, and illogically stung by the injustice of not being trusted by this woman, after all she'd tried to do for String, "how do I know that what you're telling him is the truth? Maybe Dr. Fairling just sent you to ‒ to mess some more with his head, or something." She stopped, appalled. She shouldn't have said that. She didn't even know where the thought had come from.

"Let her talk," said String unexpectedly. Both women jumped. It was the first thing he'd said all day.

So the conversation proceeded, in an atmosphere thick with mutual suspicion.

Ann told him his name, and where he lived and what he did, and how he had ended up at the Green Hills Nursing Home and Clinic. Then, when he went blank on them, she told him again. It all sounded completely bizarre to Elena. Who was this John Bradford Horn and why had he wanted to hurt String so badly? And yet it made sense. It explained why nothing was being done to help String get better; why, in fact, he always seemed worse after his sessions with the doctor. Why there were so few signs of physical injury from the car accident she assumed he had been in.

What String thought of it all, there was no telling.

Ann hadn't told him everything she knew. If he got better, he'd be able to fill in the gaps himself. If he didn't ‒ well, none of it would matter anyway. One of the things she left out was any mention of Airwolf. She was having a hard enough time dealing with Stringfellow Hawke in his current condition; she _really _didn't want to see him become "irrational with terror", as Dr. Fairling had put it.

"You should go to the police," said Elena.

Ann stared at her. "You must be joking. They couldn't protect him."

"But you've got to do something! If Dr. Fairling is really doing what you say she is, you can't let it go on! You've got to get him away from here!"

"I can't protect him either," said Ann. "There's no place to hide that my father couldn't find him. And me." She shivered.

"Well then, does he have any other friends that would help?" Elena persisted. "Any family? What about the people he works for?"

"I really don't think it's a good idea to contact them," the other woman replied, a bit evasively, Elena thought. "There's nothing they can do. And he has no family." Horn's original dossier on Hawke had included some sketchy information about his MIA brother, but Ann didn't think that any help was likely from that quarter.

"There must be _something_ someone can do."

"Well, when you figure out what it is, you let me know. I've had enough of this." She stood up and reached for her coat. Halfway to the door, she stopped and sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. I just didn't think it would be this hard. I thought all I'd have to do would be to tell him what had happened, jog his memory, and he'd be okay. And then he could get himself out of this mess."

"You said you read all of Dr. Fairling's reports," said Elena quietly. "You must have realized what kind of shape he'd be in."

"I know, but ‒ _you_ don't know what he was like before. I think he was about the strongest, bravest person I'd ever met. A real fighter, really ‒ resourceful, I guess is the word I want. Just a natural-born hero type." She smiled slightly. "I thought he'd be able to deal with it. That somehow he was faking it, that he'd managed to con that Fairling woman into thinking he was worse than he really was, or else that she'd exaggerated his condition because she wanted Horn to think everything was going well. Wishful thinking, I guess."

"I'm still here," rasped String. "Quit talking about me like I'm not."

Ann started. "Well then, Hawke, you tell me. Got any bright ideas?"

Silence.

"Uh huh. Well, like I said, when you get one, you let me know. I'm leaving."

"Wait a minute," said Elena. "What about the black machine he talks about sometimes? Do you know what that is?" It was the one mystery about String that she was most desperate to solve, because it was the one thing that seemed to terrify him.

"It's a helicopter," said Ann reluctantly. "If he ever starts getting his head straight, you ask him about Airwolf. Now I'm leaving. Hawke, I just ‒ I hope I helped you."

"Are you coming back tomorrow?" asked Elena, confused. It sounded as if the other woman was making her final goodbyes.

"Not me. I'm heading for Antigua. I can't get warm around here." The door shut behind her.

"Wait a minute!" Elena rushed out into the hallway and caught her arm. "You can't just leave like this! String still needs you. There must be more that you can tell him."

Ann shook off the hand on her arm. "You just don't get it, do you? I've done everything I can do for him." _Everything except call in the cavalry, that is, because this cavalry is likely to shoot me along with the Indians. _"And now I'm going to try to convince daddy dearest that I've just headed to the Caribbean straight from Aspen, and I've never been anywhere closer to here than New York City. I want to try to forget this place even exists."

Elena shook her head, but couldn't think of anything to say that would convince the other woman to stay. "I'll let you out, then," she sighed. During the afternoon rest period all the doors in the clinic were locked.

Ann looked up and down the corridor of blank closed doors, and shivered as if the sight gave her a physical chill. It was like two rows of pastel-painted cages, she thought. Hawke, I'm sorry. I wish there was something more I could do. I wish I'd never come.

When Elena opened the door to the entrance lobby, Ann all but bolted out the front door.

-----------------

What Ann had told him ought to have been an anchor to reality. It felt more like the anchor was a mirage, fastened in quicksand.

She'd told him his name wasn't Tommy Vine, it was Stringfellow Hawke. It meant nothing to him, and much of the time he couldn't remember what she'd told him. What kind of a name was Stringfellow, anyway? Kid called that must have gotten plenty of teasing growing up.

Ann. Ann, or Angelica? Ann meant nothing to him, either. But the other ‒ the name, and the face. Both familiar. He knew he'd met her before. Knew he knew far more of her than just her face. For once he was able to snag a memory from his mind: just another piece of flotsam that surfaced from time to time, like the lake and the cabin, but at least this one had come on command, and he could take it, turn it over and examine it.

Ann, standing in an austere windowless bedroom, with tears running down her face.

"_I know you said you could handle the deception. I want you to know that I hate it as much as you do. And I just want to know if there's still a chance for us . . . Is there?"_

"_Why?"_

"_Damnit, I want you! I care about you! And because . . . I'm afraid you may not come back."_

"_I'll be back."_

"_Do you care about me?"_

His answer had taken quite some time to give, and just thinking of it produced a startlingly intense echo of a reaction in his body, even now. Oh yeah, he definitely knew more of Angelica Horn ‒ or Ann Strete ‒ than just her face.

Good thing it was the middle of the night, and he was alone. He shifted uncomfortably in the bed, then gave in with a groan and began to ease himself with his own hand.

And yet there was something wrong here. The memory was sullied somehow. Angelica ‒ Ann ‒ had done something to him, something that hurt. When he thought of her beautiful face and flawless body, he felt lust, but also shame, humiliation, and a cold, abiding anger. And ‒ regret? He couldn't remember the reasons for it, not yet. But it meant that he couldn't trust her. Had anything that she'd told him been the truth?

--------------------

Elena told him Dr. Fairling would be back in just over two months. String's grasp of the passage of time was still rather tenuous. Tomorrow was no problem. Next week was a vague concept. Two months was almost unknowable. And yet the thought hung over him like an ominous thunderhead. Dr. Fairling, with her innocuous, bland face ‒ even now he couldn't quite bring it to mind; the image was blurry, out of focus. It was her voice that he heard in his nightmares, twisting and digging and driving its way right down to the roots of his mind.

He had to find a way to escape before she started in on him again, because if he was still here when she came back, he knew he would be here for the rest of his life. Or until she decided to do something else with him. But as far as being able to get away from this place went, he wasn't in much better shape than he'd been when he'd arrived ‒ whenever that had been. Much longer than two months, anyway.

He didn't sleep well. The real nightmares were infrequent, but his dreams often seemed restless and vaguely anxious. When he couldn't sleep, he stared at the ceiling, trying to work his way through the fog that permeated his memory.

_Think, goddamn it. There must be a way. You've gotten out of bad situations before._

_Oh yeah? Like what?_

He couldn't think of any examples. Whatever device his brain used to dredge items out of his memory might have provided him with a red-hot recollection of Angelica Horn, but was utterly failing him here.

_Lake, eagle, cabin . . . no, stop it, that's not what I need . . . not going to help._

_A machine. A black machine. Flying._

He took a deep breath, feeling himself break out in a sweat, starting to shake all over. _Stop it. It's not really here. Not even the black machine can get you, if it's not here._

_Flying_.

_Ann said I was a pilot. I _am_ a pilot._

His memory heaved up another fragment. A big, bulbous machine, painted drab brown and olive green. _Huey._

But he wasn't the one flying it. Another man sat at the controls. A few years older than String, with prematurely gray hair and calm eyes that were a darker blue than String's own. Something about the man made String want to weep, but he didn't know why.

_Think. Try harder. The Huey's not yours, not anymore. This man can't help you._

Another machine. This one was smaller and sleeker, white, red and blue. Like a flag. _"Well, it's sure_ _one of a kind, Dom. Everybody can see you coming."_

"_In this business, kid, that's a good thing."_

_Dom. This man's name is Dom. He can help me._

_Who is Dom? Where is he? Have to find him._

_Dom!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"Dom!"

"Shh, String. Wake up. You're having a dream."

String got his eyes open at last, and saw Elena bending over him. The helicopters and the men flying them disappeared. "Elena?" he said groggily. "What was I dreaming about?"

"I don't know, String," she answered patiently. "It sounded like you were looking for somebody. Somebody called Dom, I think. At least that's what it sounded like."

He couldn't remember anything about the dream, or anyone called Dom. He let his head fall back on the pillow with a sigh, eyes closing again. Then he yanked the blankets over his head, trying to burrow back down into the dream.

Elena pulled them back down again. "Oh no, you don't. Come on, String, it's time to get up. And I want you to do something for me."

"What?" he asked grumpily.

"I want to see how much you can do on your own. I'll bet you can do a lot more than you think you can."

He looked at her suspiciously. "You mean you're not going to help me?"

"I don't think you need nearly as much help as we've been giving you. Don't you want to see if you're not as helpless as Dr. Fairling thinks you are?"

"I'm not helpless," he snapped.

"Then prove it. Get into this chair on your own. At least try, for pity's sake."

He looked at the wheelchair, parked next to the bed, and felt as if he could no more get into it without her help than fly to the moon. He was angry that she thought he could, and perversely he felt peeved at being called helpless. He glared at her. She looked equably back at him. "Are you planning on staying there all day?"

He shoved the blankets aside and dragged himself over to the side of the bed. "Do I get a gold star for this?" he asked mockingly, reaching out for the closest arm of the chair.

"No stars. But if you tell me what your favorite breakfast is, I'll see what I can do."

"A really puffy omelette with lots of cheese, fresh squeezed orange juice and a pot of decent coffee," he said unhesitatingly.

"Oh, dear. How do you feel about some really nice cereal?"

"You go to hell."

"Certainly. As soon as I see you try a bit harder."

"Bitch," he muttered. He reached across the chair for the other arm. "Now what?" he growled.

"Pull with both arms. Don't worry, the chair won't move. I've got it. Which is more than you deserve, swearing at me like that."

"I can swear a lot worse than that."

"I know you can. I've heard you. Now put some effort into this, will you? What would you do if your bed was on fire?"

"Get out the marshmallows."

"You'd _be_ a marshmallow. Now come on."

It took nearly five minutes, but finally he collapsed in the chair, exhausted. Elena applauded ecstatically. "Very good! That was wonderful!" She bent down to give him a brief, impulsive kiss on the top of his head.

"Now what?" he asked again, sarcastically. "A brisk jog around the block?"

"Of course not. You're not dressed yet. Let's see how much you can do in here on your own." She pushed the chair to the bathroom door.

Breakfast was much later than usual that morning, but he felt a definite sense of accomplishment when he was finally dressed, with food in front of him, even if it was only cereal.

That minor act of independence wasn't enough to satisfy Elena. It was obvious to her, if not to String, that he was capable of much more. Depending on his mood, she began to coax, tease, or bully him into doing more for himself. Usually he seemed to enjoy the challenge, even if he scowled and snapped at her. The effects of the disaster that had happened to him at the time of the food poisoning incident seemed to be abating, and most days he was alert and willing to push himself. But there were times she found him so uncooperative that she just left him in peace, and there were still a few days that were hopeless, when nothing could get through to him.

Dr. Fairling had left a supply of his medication to be administered weekly, and the senior nurse at the clinic made sure that the orders were scrupulously followed. The drugs were given by one of the night nurses after the evening shift was gone, drawn out of 5 cc vials that were unlabelled except for Tommy Vine's name. String dreaded the needles. Whatever was in them made him feel muddled and mixed up, unable to tell what day it was or even to keep a coherent thought in his head for at least twenty four hours. But without the doctor's voice talking to him at the same time, it didn't seem to be quite so bad. He didn't tell Elena about the drugs. When things began to make sense again, he knew there was nothing she could do.

------------------

In the middle of another sleepless night, it came back to String that Ann had told him there was nothing wrong with his legs. No reason why he couldn't just get up and walk. It was only Dr. Fairling who had made him believe he couldn't.

He couldn't imagine himself walking. He had no idea how to even take a step. But he had to try, because however he was going to get away from here, it sure as hell couldn't be in a wheelchair.

No time like the present.

Luisa had put up the side rails on the bed. All of them did that, even Elena, probably because several times he would have fallen right out while in the grip of a nightmare, even without the use of his legs. Still, it was one more thing to hate about this place, making him feel like he was sleeping in a goddamned baby's crib.

It took a few minutes of fumbling, and got him a good bang across one forearm and some pinched fingers, but he finally succeeded in sliding down the right-hand rail. He sat up, pushed the sheet and blanket away, and then tugged with both hands until he got one leg and then the other hung over the side of the bed. They dangled there, useless as ever. He couldn't even move his feet.

_Now what?_

_Keep going. See what happens next._

What happened next was that he heaved himself off the bed with his arms and promptly went down in an ignominious heap.

_Shit._

Cursing, he dragged himself back to the side of the bed and tried to pull himself up. But his arms didn't have enough strength to get more than halfway, and after struggling for a few minutes, he could no longer even remember what he was trying to do. He spent the rest of the night sleeping on the floor next to the bed.

------------------

Karen found him in the morning, still there. "Oh, for God's sake," she said crossly. "What were you trying to do, play Superman?" She brought the wheelchair over, hauled him more or less upright and got him into it, then pushed him into the bathroom to get the day started.

She was stronger than either Elena or Luisa, probably stronger than he was, but he suddenly had the briefest spark of an idea. Something that might work, if he could only hang onto it for long enough.

-----------------

February seemed to gallop past, colorless and cold. In spite of the distraction provided by Elena's unofficial physiotherapy, there was no doubt that the thought of the doctor's return was worrying String; whether that worry could be justified or not obviously depended on how much truth there had been in what Ann Strete had said. Her story had seemed fantastic at the time and it didn't grow any more believable the longer Elena thought about it. In any case, what could be done? All the staff at the clinic deferred to Dr. Fairling; she couldn't expect any help or even support from anyone there. As for going to the police, she didn't have one shred of firm evidence that any harm had been done to String at the clinic; that Tommy Vine wasn't a legitimate patient there, being treated for injuries due to a motorcycle accident. They certainly wouldn't take _his_ word for it, against Dr. Fairling's. And Ann, the only one who could provide any proof of wrongdoing, had fled.

If only she had trusted Elena enough to give her the name of someone else who was willing to do more for String than she, Ann, had done. Preferably someone who would come and take him away from this place, out of Dr. Fairling's clutches. But she hadn't. The only hope now was that String would remember on his own. But his memory and ability to think coherently, although much better than they had been, were still a long way from perfect.

The more he became aware of how much his life was regulated and restricted, the more snappish and impatient he became. One afternoon he almost flung his food tray again, at Luisa this time, accompanied by some choice and imaginative profanities. Luisa, good-natured and boisterous, took the incident in her stride. She had always treated her patients like overgrown children, and included them in her prayers every Sunday at Our Lady of Sorrows (something that shamed Elena into making one of her rare visits to St. Elzbieta's, to offer up a few words herself on String's behalf). Luisa could be irritating, but was never malicious, and String generally seemed to realize that.

With Karen, on the other hand, his relationship was becoming more like unarmed combat. Elena knew that the other woman actively disliked their patient. She continued to treat him like a little kid, even though he had become much more rational lately, guessing correctly that that would annoy him more than anything else. His attitude became even more resentful and non-cooperative. It was a vicious circle; each made the other worse. Elena just hoped that he had enough sense to avoid doing something stupid. If Karen put in a formal complaint, String could be declared violent. If he felt a sense of confinement now, that would be nothing in comparison to what would happen if he was considered a danger to others.

She didn't know how close that had already come to happening.

Karen had been looking after String the evening before. He had given her a hard time over supper ‒ he had to be the pickiest eater she'd ever met. She retaliated when it was time to get him into bed, teasing and touching him unnecessarily, intimately, something that she wouldn't have dared try in a more conventional institution. Considering his reaction the last time she'd played this game with him, she'd thought it would be easy to get him aroused. Instead he seemed to have found some self-control somewhere. Trust the bastard to be as perverse about this as about everything else. Angry and uncomfortable he certainly was, but determined not to give her any satisfaction.

At last she got tired of playing with him, and pulled up his sheet and blanket. "So, String, have you been getting it someplace after all? Elena doing extra duty for you? Or did that blonde chickie that was here decide she wanted to get it on with a cripple?"

He reached out, fast as a snake, and grabbed her wrist with one hand. He didn't say anything, just gave her a chilling glare for a long moment before finally letting go. Then he closed his eyes and turned his head away, effectively sending a message that as far as he was concerned she had ceased to exist.

She remained frozen for a brief time. There had been something truly terrifying about that look. She found herself badly shaken.

Then she recovered and flounced out of the room, snapping off the lights and locking the door behind her as loudly as she could, and went directly to Anne Marie to complain that Tommy Vine had become aggressive and tried to intimidate her.

The nurse wasn't overly sympathetic. Although Mr. Vine had made few friends among the clinic staff, Anne Marie knew perfectly well that Karen rubbed him the wrong way far more than anyone else did. Also, she still felt the other woman was at least partially responsible for the shit that had hit the fan after the food poisoning incident ‒ a great deal of which had landed on Anne Marie ‒ by not reporting that her patient had been ill before slapping him down in the basement for the night. She made soothing noises about getting Mr. Vine's doctor to look into the problem when she came back, but didn't offer to take any further action.

The next day turned out to be one of those brilliant winter days, when the sun shines from a cloudless sky and turns the snow on the ground into something resembling a carpet of diamonds. Sitting in the lounge after breakfast, String pestered Elena to take him outside. Elena, for once, refused to do what he wanted.

"It's way too cold out there," she protested. "The temperature was about five degrees above zero when I came in."

"Come on, Elena. I need to get out of here. Just for a few minutes."

"Forget it. You don't even have a proper coat."

"I'll be fine."

"No."

He started to get angry, and his voice rose in volume. "Is this a clinic or a goddamned prison? Why can't I go outside if I want to?"

"String, please ‒ "

"Well? Answer me, Elena. Is this a prison? You know it is, don't you? You damned well know it is!"

A few startled heads turned toward them. A nurse hurried over. String had started to push himself out of the chair, as if intending to walk out. She pushed him back down. "Please, Mr. Vine, keep your voice down. You're upsetting the other patients. We don't want that, do we?"

"I don't give a damn who's upset! All I want is some fresh air. You keep people cooped up in this place for weeks, like we're rats in a cage or something. I just want to go out for a walk for a few minutes ‒ who the hell are you to tell me I can't?"

"Now, be reasonable, Mr. Vine. It's far too cold for you out there. Of course you can go out for a walk, when it's warmer."

"Which won't be for a long time, now will it?"

" Mr. Vine, if you don't keep your voice down and stop upsetting others, Elena will have to move you somewhere where you won't be able to see the nice view at all."

"The hell she will. Elena wouldn't do that to me, would you, Elena?"

"String, for pity's sake ‒ "

"Calm down, Mr. Vine, or you'll have to spend some more time in one of the rooms downstairs."

He subsided, still with a mutinous, rather petulant look on his face. The nurse said to Elena, "You'll be glad to know that Dr. Fairling called yesterday. She's decided to come back early."

"Oh, really?" Elena managed to get out. "Did she say when?"

"Sometime late next week. Apparently her research project wrapped up sooner than she thought." She smiled brightly at String. "So whatever it is that's upsetting you, Mr. Vine, I'm sure she'll be able to sort it out as soon as she gets here."

She left them, having effectively managed to stop String's tantrum. He gave Elena a horrified look and reached out, grabbing both her hands in his. "Oh God, I can't go back ‒ I need to think ‒ Elena, I've got to _do_ something!"

She held him, trying wordlessly to comfort him and stave off the spectre of mental subjugation that the doctor's name had invoked. She felt useless. It wasn't comfort he needed, she realized; what he really wanted was a plan. And she still had absolutely no idea what that could be.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The few visitors that came to Green Hills usually came on the weekend. The staff tried to ensure that all patients were presentable and on their best behavior if possible and well out of the way if not, and the presence of one or two strangers in the lounge seemed to turn the whole place into a comparative hive of activity. On Mondays the clinic seemed even more somnolent than usual by contrast, both staff and patients needing a rest after all the excitement.

It was Karen's turn to look after String for the early shift on the following Monday. She had been more wary of him since making her complaint to Anne Marie. Somehow Tommy Vine didn't seem like such an easy victim as he had even a few days ago. Now she tried to maintain a cool, impersonal attitude toward him. He didn't say a word to her all day, but whenever she looked at him she found he was watching her. She felt surprisingly flustered, and that made her resentful. _The man's stuck in a wheelchair and he doesn't even know his own name. He's got no right to look so damned intimidating._ She was glad when two thirty arrived. Now she just had to get him into bed and she'd be done with him.

For once he was cooperative. She got him ready for his afternoon rest and wheeled his chair next to the bed. She put one hand under his right elbow and the other around his back to help him out of the chair, just as she normally did, but something seemed to go wrong; instead of maneuvering onto the bed, String seemed to lose his balance and fall forward, dragging her down with him. He was clinging to her and she couldn't get free of him.

He hit her hard, twice. Her eyes rolled up and she went limp. He grabbed her ring of keys and pushed himself out from underneath her. He dragged himself back into the chair and rolled over to the closet, retrieving the one jacket he seemed to possess, along with a couple of shirts. He pulled on the jacket and slipped the keys into one of the pockets, then used one of the shirts to gag Karen and the other to tie her hands behind her. He had to tip himself back onto the floor to do it, then get back into the chair. Breathing hard, he was finally ready.

Pulling the door open wasn't easy, but he'd done it before with Elena. There was no one in the hallway, no one at the nursing station at the end. He could hear a TV set through an open door behind the desk, but whoever was watching it was out of sight.

At this hour all the patients were supposed to be safely in their rooms, and all the staff put their feet up. It was the best opportunity he was ever going to have.

He locked his own door, then as quietly as possible, rolled down the hallway away from the nursing station. There was a door at the far end, with a red glowing Exit sign above it. The door was locked, but another of Karen's keys opened it. It was heavy, and for a moment he was afraid that he wouldn't be able to get out, but after a determined struggle he made it through.

On the other side was a door with a crashbar. A door to the outside. He was almost there. But between himself and that last door lay exactly six steps down.

He needed the chair outside, because although he might not get very far in it, he sure as hell wouldn't get anywhere without it. He had to get it down the steps, without making so much noise he attracted attention. Without hesitation he pushed himself over the edge of the top step, keeping a grip on the handrail for as long as possible.

In the end it turned into something like a controlled crash. He finished up at the bottom, scraped and banged, with the chair more or less on top of him; but now he was only a couple of feet from that last door. Breathing harshly through an open mouth, he righted the chair and clawed his way back into it. Then he heaved against the door with his right shoulder, hooking the fingers of his left hand in the doorframe and struggling to pull himself through as the door gradually opened.

Finally he was outside. Even though the day was overcast, the light seemed blinding.

Outside, but not free yet. He was at the edge of a parking lot, with forest beyond that; but between them was a tall chainlink fence. It was electrified, but that didn't make any difference; he couldn't have gotten over it anyway. He rolled through the parking lot as quickly as possible, following around the side of the building.

His luck was still holding. When he got around to the front, he could see there was a gate across the driveway, but it stood wide open, presumably because it was the middle of the day. Pretty sloppy security, he thought; you could lose prisoners that way. He aimed the chair through the gate and set out down the driveway, which wound its way through the woods in a route that would be pretty when the trees were in leaf.

God, it was cold. The temperature was well below freezing, and he had only a light jacket and no gloves. And he had absolutely no idea where he was headed for. All he knew was that he had to keep going.

The drive ran downhill for a while, which helped, but the snow was deep. Muscles no longer used to real work soon began to complain. He stopped when the drive crossed a large culvert and began to wind uphill again. He slid out of the wheelchair and pushed it over the edge into the icebound creek below, then began to drag himself through the snow and undergrowth on his belly. He had only covered about a hundred feet before he had to stop, strength, determination and reason all waning at the same time. After a few minutes' gasping open-mouthed rest he tried to resume his struggle, but this time didn't even make it half that distance before everything gave out.

He knew now he wasn't going to survive, and he didn't care. The ones who had put him here, they weren't going to win either, not when he was dead.

He tried to curl himself into a ball. He was shivering all over; even his legs were jerking. After a few minutes he stopped shivering and didn't move at all.

------------------

It was Luisa who sounded the alarm, finding Karen after arriving to start her evening shift. The building was ransacked in search of the missing patient, and it was nearly dark by the time it was decided that he must somehow or other have gotten outside. Even though the fact that Karen's set of keys was missing had been discovered almost right away, no one had seriously thought that a patient confined to a wheelchair could have gotten out of the building, especially without anyone noticing. Although it was nearly dark by then, it was easy enough to follow the wheelchair tracks through the snow. A little over two hours after he had made his bid for freedom, Tommy Vine was brought back to the clinic.

-----------------

When he woke up again he found himself swaddled in thick blankets, lying in bed in a room he didn't recognize. There was no window, and aside from the bed the only furniture was a small bedside stand which was bolted to the floor. Through an open doorway he could see a tiny bathroom. The ceiling lights were recessed and carefully covered with mesh; there was more mesh in the little window in the door. Twisting his head, he saw a closed circuit TV camera high up on the wall above him. The place wasn't quite a padded cell, but it was far closer than he ever wanted to come.

He tried to move, and found that his arms were immobilized by heavy padded restraints.

_Hell._

So he had survived after all. On balance, he decided he preferred the idea of being dead. Better to freeze to death out in the open than be reduced to a mindless idiot in this place. But it didn't look like he was going to get the option.

The sound of the door opening seemed incredibly loud in the silence. String found himself facing two men: a husky male nurse carrying a tray of food, followed by an even huskier orderly.

"Good morning, Mr. Vine," said the nurse. "How are we feeling this morning?"

String glared at him. "I know how _I'm _feeling. I don't give a damn how _we_ are feeling."

"I'll take that to mean that you're feeling better," said the man briskly. "Now I just need to take your vital signs. Then I assume you'd like some breakfast."

String stared at the ceiling without bothering to reply. The nurse took his temperature and pulse and listened to his chest with a stethoscope. "Very healthy, Mr. Vine. You seem to have recovered quite well. We were quite worried about you, you know. But it looks like we found you before severe hypothermia set in."

String stayed mute. The nurse unfastened his right hand just long enough for him to eat breakfast ‒ toast and a banana, along with a cup of orange juice: nothing that required cutlery. Then they brought him a bedpan, which he only consented to use because the alternatives were even more humiliating.

"Hey!" he said, as the two were leaving. "How long do I have to stay here for?"

"Until Dr. Fairling gets back," the nurse answered. "I'm afraid you haven't been very trustworthy, Mr. Vine. What you did to Karen wasn't nice at all. And rushing off into all that snow and cold was very, very silly. We can't have you doing that again."

"I want to see Elena," he yelled as the door was closing.

"I'm afraid you won't be seeing Elena for a while."

"Hey! You can't just leave me here!"

The door shut and locked.

String thumped both fists on the mattress in frustration. After a minute of fuming, he became aware of another sensation, so unfamiliar it took a moment to identify it.

His legs were cramping.

Very slowly, with intense concentration, he found he was able to move each foot sufficiently to massage the opposite calf and ease the spasms. Then his legs started jerking under the covers, moving of their own volition. He was as entranced by the discomfort as a kid with a new Christmas toy. He stretched out one leg, then the other, over and over again, grinning like an idiot as he felt the muscles respond to his will.

But after a while even that novelty palled. He let his head flop back on the pillow and glared up at the ceiling again, wondering how soon it would be before he'd memorized the number of white acoustic tiles.

Assuming he hadn't been out of it for longer than overnight that would have been Tuesday's breakfast he'd just eaten. And the doctor was supposed to be back sometime late this week, which could be, depending on how you defined it, anywhere from Wednesday to Sunday. Which meant, any way you looked at it, he was going to be stuck here for a hell of a long time.

He was going to be on a first-name basis with every single one of those ceiling tiles.

-----------------

Elena pleaded to be allowed to see him, and was curtly refused. "Forget it, Elena. The man's dangerous. Karen spent six hours in emergency last night. Only the guys are allowed in his room, and even then there have to be two of them."

"But couldn't I go in with ‒ "

"No way. He's going to stay in that room by himself and mind his p's and q's until Dr. Fairling gets back, and I just hope that she can do something with him. Personally I hope she decides to move him someplace else with better security. The man's caused enough disruption as it is. Most of them ‒ " the nurse waved a hand in the direction of the patients' rooms " ‒ know somebody got out last night, and it's made them all antsy. Which reminds me, the old guy in 103 needs a sponge bath, so could you get started on that, please?"

"But I ‒ "

"Elena, if you want to continue picking up your paycheck here, I suggest you do as you're told and just get on with your job."

------------------

There were exactly one hundred and nine tiles in the ceiling, plus thirty partial tiles where they'd been cut to fit the walls or ceiling fixtures, and he'd counted them all three times before the nurse brought him lunch on his first day of incarceration. As usual with tiles like these there was a bad stain in one corner; he spent a while trying to determine whether it was water or something more noxious, and how it got there, and then decided to put that analysis on hold until he felt truly desperate.

By suppertime he was that desperate.

By the time the tag team of nurse and orderly ‒ different staff, but both still male, and still husky ‒ arrived to do a night check, he wanted out of there so badly that he was shaking. The nurse looked at him, went away and came back with a syringe, and gave him an armful of sedative. String slept.

At some point he had a dream. It was the old vision of the lake and the mountains; he saw the eagle sail past overhead and heard the breeze soughing in the trees. He could feel the sun's warmth on his back as he climbed the wooden steps from the dock to the cabin.

The door stood open, and this time, he went inside.

------------------

Two nights later, in a villa on a small island near Antigua, the phone rang. Ann Strete was sprawled on a recliner by the open French doors that gave onto a patio and then to the palm-fringed beach. Although the telephone was only on the other side of the room, she left it to one of the servants to answer it and then bring the instrument over to her.

"Yes?"

She'd known who it was going to be. "Good evening, daughter."

"Good evening, father," she answered with a sigh. He'd left her in peace for several months; now he'd obviously decided it was time to check up on her again.

"I haven't spoken to you for a while. Have you been well?"

"Very well, thank you."

"Did you enjoy yourself in Aspen?"

"It was too cold."

"I see. Hence the Caribbean."

"That's right."

"Have you been anywhere else lately?" he asked casually.

She thought quickly, and decided to admit to a half-truth. "I spent a few days in New York in January. I felt like shopping."

"And how was New York?"

"Cold. Rainy."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I hope your ‒ _shopping_ ‒ expedition was successful."

"So-so."

"Hmm. Well, my dear, I'm going to be returning to the States tomorrow, and I'd like you to do me a favor."

"Of course."

"I'd like you to meet me. In New Hampshire."

Ann felt as if a bucket of ice cubes had just been dumped down her back. "New Hampshire? What for?"

"I have an old friend staying there. He's not very well, and I'd like you to meet him. It might do him some good."

"Do I know him?" she asked, trying to sound puzzled.

"Oh, I think you might have met him once or twice. I've already arranged for you to be escorted to where he's staying, and I'll meet you there sometime tomorrow morning. The plane will pick you up in an hour." The phone went dead.

Ann stared at the receiver in her hand, then gave it back to the impassive servant. She went to her room, but instead of starting to pack, stood staring out the window at the moonlit beach.

This sort of summons from John Bradford Horn wasn't unusual, but this time she had a very bad feeling that he knew all about what she'd really been doing at the beginning of January. What he wanted her for now she had no idea. If Hawke had managed to regain any of his reason, he certainly wasn't going to want anything to do with her. The seductress act would never wash with him a second time.

Whatever her ersatz father wanted, it likely would be neither healthy nor enjoyable, for herself or Hawke. If he hadn't succeeded in getting out of that clinic yet, he still wasn't going to be any help to her in dealing with Horn.

Maybe it was finally time to call in the cavalry.

She picked up the phone extension, hoping that none of the servants would listen in; she knew damned well that Horn wasn't above having her spied on.

"Hello, operator? I need to make a call to the States, please." She looked at her watch; it would be just after six in the evening in Los Angeles. She just hoped that they were working late.

-----------------

The phone started to ring just as Dominic Santini was locking up the hangar for the night. Caitlin had left a few minutes earlier.

Eight months ago, he would have ignored it. He was bone tired and didn't feel like dealing with someone who probably just wanted to know how much a flying lesson cost. If it was important, they'd leave a message. But this wasn't eight months ago, and there was just a chance ‒ there was always a chance ‒ this call could be about String. He went back inside and picked up the phone.

"Santini Air," he said gruffly.

A woman's voice said, "If you're still looking for Stringfellow Hawke, he's at the Green Hills Nursing Home and Clinic near Plymouth, New Hampshire. Come as quickly as you can. Bring Airwolf. You'll need it." There was a click, then nothing but the dial tone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The lights were still turned down to nighttime dimness when String's abnormally acute hearing, honed even more by the recent hours spent in almost complete silence, heard footsteps in the hallway outside. Just one person, hesitating in front of his door. His heart rate jumped. Friend or foe? Elena or the doctor? The last dose of sedative he'd been given had worn off hours ago, and he felt as if every nerve in his body was balanced on a knife edge.

The door opened slowly and the individual slipped in without turning up the room lights. Still, there was enough light for him to be able to identify the last person he was expecting to see here: Ann Strete. And she was pushing an empty wheelchair.

What the hell did she want with him now?

Ann closed the door and locked it behind her, then came over to the bedside and stood peering down at him. "Hawke?" she whispered. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah, I'm awake," he rasped. "Did you bring daddy dearest with you this time? Or Dr. Demento?"

She had already started to unfasten the arm restraints. "No, but they'll be here soon. I came to get you out, Hawke. You've got to take me with you."

"Lady, it's your fault I'm here in the first place. I don't have to take you anywhere."

"That's not fair! I did my best two months ago. I told you who you were and what happened to you. It's not my fault if it wasn't enough."

He looked at the wall above the bed. "What about that camera?"

"Nobody's watching it right now. There's only one nurse and she's on her break for another half hour." Ann pulled off the second cuff. "Come on, Hawke, we've got to go!" She leaned over to tug him off the bed toward the waiting wheelchair.

He let her haul at him, so that when he finally pushed off the bed their combined momentum sent her crashing backwards and into the chair. It went flying across the room and Ann smacked into the floor. An instant later String was on top of her.

Her eyes widened in sudden fear. Even in the dimness she could see the expression on his face. He looked like a man completely out of control. "Where's Horn? Did he send you here?"

"I don't know where he is! He said he'd be here this morning. He told me that he wanted me to meet an old friend of his. And that he thought I could help this friend. I don't know what he wants me to do."

"Oh, you're gonna help me all right, Angelica. Where's the key for that door?"

"I'm not telling you! Let me up, damn you!"

He ignored that and instead began to grope in the pockets of her black silk slacks with one hand. The other hand kept her wrists pinned over her head, against the floor. With her long blonde hair wildly disarranged and the look of increasing terror on her face, she looked almost exactly the way he had, with immense satisfaction, imagined seeing her in his more vindictive moments after he had escaped from Horn's bunker in Texas.

"You knew people," he said, looking down at her.

"What are you talking about?"

"You knew people who could have helped me. Why didn't you call them? Why did you just walk away and leave me here? You could have let someone know before you took off for Antigua or wherever the hell you went."

"I was scared, all right? No, more than that, I was terrified. Horn knew I was up to something. I don't know how, but he always knows if I even think of going behind his back. If anyone showed up to rescue you, he would have known it was because of me. And if I'd stayed with you, anyone who did come would probably be after me too. Anyhow, I did call! I _have_ called! I talked to Dominic Santini yesterday. I told him to bring Airwolf. He's on his way. He might even be here by now."

"Yeah, right." His hand found the doorkey and pulled it out, setting it aside.

"Now," he said hoarsely, "if daddy thought it was a good idea for you to come see me, let's find out just how much he doesn't care about you."

"Hawke! For God's sake, I came to rescue you!"

"Yeah? And just what did you think you were going to rescue? The little wind-up Stringfellow Hawke toy that you and Horn created before? So we could go on happily ever after?"

"I'm sorry about that. Didn't I tell you how sorry I was about that? That wasn't the way I wanted you. It never was. Hawke, you have to believe me!"

She writhed underneath him, trying desperately to throw him off. He laughed mirthlessly. "Afraid your credibility rating is about subzero. But _you_ better believe _this_, you bitch. In case they didn't tell you, I'm officially considered a danger to others."

The hand that wasn't holding her wrists came down and tore at the waistband of her slacks, pulling them down along with her panties, and then his knee drove between her legs and spread them apart. She opened her mouth to scream and found it blocked by his, pressing down hard enough to bruise. The scream came out as a whimper.

"I thought this was what you wanted," he said mockingly. _"Angelica."_

With the tiny amount of freedom she'd gained from the easing of the pressure on her mouth, she bit his lip as hard as she could. "Damn you, Hawke, I'm not Angelica!"

He laughed again. It was one of the most chilling sounds she'd ever heard in her life, as terrifying as anything she had ever heard from Horn. Blood welled up on his lip and a red drop landed on her face; he didn't seem to have even noticed the bite. "Too late. Doesn't matter now."

She could feel him ready to take her, and couldn't stop herself from making another whimpering sound, wondering how much he was going to make her hurt.

"_String! What the hell are you doing!"_

The voice, a hiss rather than a shout, acted like a bucket of cold water being dumped on him. He lifted his head and turned to see the door open again. Elena stood in the doorway, carrying a bundle of something in her hand. She was staring at him in shock. "String?" she said again.

He looked from her to Ann, staring up at him with wide terrified eyes, and rolled away to lean back against the bed. He dropped his head into his hands. "Oh, God," he mumbled. "I don't know." He looked suddenly as if he might be sick.

Ann scrambled away, trying frantically to pull her clothing back into place at the same time. Elena went to kneel beside her. "Are you all right?"

Ann nodded jerkily, huge eyes still fixed on String. Elena patted her shoulder awkwardly. She had no idea what to say to the other woman; she wasn't even sure just what she had interrupted. But she did know that they couldn't sit around here. She went back to String, still sitting there as if in shock, and dropped the bundle she'd been carrying into his lap, where it covered his wilting erection. It was a set of his clothes, including a jacket. "Come on, String, you have to get moving. Here. Put these on."

He took the clothes, looking around as if hoping to find someplace private to get changed in. Elena shook her head in annoyance. "It's a bit late for modesty. Hurry up. We need to get you out of here before the night nurse comes back and takes a look at the monitor." She jerked her head in the direction of the camera. "And before she misses her set of master keys." She tugged the hospital gown over his head without bothering to undo the ties at the back.

"Horn and Fairling will be here soon," said Ann, shakily climbing to her feet, using the wall for support.

"They're already here," said Elena brutally.

While String scrambled into the clothes she brought the wheelchair over. He ignored it, getting to his feet and heading for the door under his own power. Momentarily distracted, she stared at him, eyes wide in wonder. "String! You're walking!"

"Yeah," he replied tersely. How long he'd be able to stay on his own two feet was debatable. Leg muscles that had done nothing at all for the better part of a year were weak and slow to respond; he wasn't sure how long they would support him for. Hell, in the aftermath of what had nearly just happened, his whole body felt weak and shaky. He shoved the thought away. The legs, along with the rest of him, would just have to keep working for as long as they needed to.

"But what happened? I mean, how – "

"Don't know. It just happened, that's all. Let's get going."

Elena shook her head in disbelief but led the way out of the room. The stolen keys got them out of the locked hallway containing the isolation ward and into the corridor where String's old room was located. She led them toward the door at the end, the one that String had escaped through four days ago, and unlocked it. The stairwell led past the fire exit to the basement, and just as they came through the door they could hear footsteps below. Two men, coming up. String caught a glimpse of them through the railing; he didn't recognize either of them._ Horn's men_, he thought.

They turned and hurried back toward the still-deserted nursing station. The door next to it that led to the rest of the clinic premises opened and there was Dr. Fairling, with another figure right behind her.

John Bradford Horn.

His eyes seemed to take on an odd gleam as he faced String. "Stringfellow Hawke," he said with slow satisfaction, as if the two women didn't exist. "Or should I say Mr. Vine?"

Horn's two men came through the door at the far end of the hall and began to close in.

Elena grabbed String's arm and pulled him backwards toward another door a few feet behind them. "Come on! This way!" This door was locked as well but she already had the key out.

The two men began to run. Fairling and Horn both made a dash at String. He gave the doctor a powerful shove, sending her hard into Horn, then Elena had the door open and they were running down a narrow passageway that ended in a swing door. They emerged through that into a kitchen, stainless steel counters gleaming in the moonlight coming through the windows along one wall. There was yelling behind them as someone started trying to smash the hallway door, then the sound of a gunshot as someone else blew the lock away. String grabbed a couple of knives from a block on one of the counters. "How many men does Horn have with him?" he demanded.

"There were two with me," gasped Ann. "I don't know how many others there are. Probably at least six."

There was a delivery door at the far side of the room. Two men came charging through the swing door just as they reached it, both taking aim at the three. String lobbed a knife in their direction; it wasn't a throwing knife nor was it flung accurately, but it came close enough to make the shooter flinch and miss his target. Ann screamed as the shot shattered a large skillet hanging on the wall next to her head. String grabbed her by the arm and propelled her out the door in front of him.

They hurried down a short drive alongside one of the wings of the clinic. String was desperately trying to move faster, but it was all he could do to maintain a rapid hobble. Elena draped his right arm over her shoulders and put her left arm around his waist to support him, and Ann stuck close to them, apparently going on the safety in numbers theory. The parking lot was in front of them, about fifty feet away beyond the end of the building. Shots were being fired behind them from the pair in the kitchen, and suddenly three more men, also armed, appeared around the corner in their path. String yelled at the two women to hit the ground and launched himself at the closest man.

He heard Horn shouting from somewhere behind him that he wanted him alive. That was good to know, although he didn't say a word about not maiming. String had no such compunction, and buried the second knife he had grabbed almost to the hilt in the man's gut. Adrenalin momentarily supplying strength and speed, he vaulted over the collapsing body and landed a vicious roundhouse punch in the face of the next oncomer. The third man dove at him, catching him around the waist and carrying him to the ground.

After that point he lost track of the sequence of events. While he was trying to protect himself from the man who was now kneeling on top of him and using his body as a punching bag, he both saw and heard Ann, screaming like a banshee, clinging to the back of the man who had been his second victim, kicking and clawing and pummeling at him for all she was worth. String hoped that Horn's edict was meant to include all three of them and not just him, but at the moment he didn't have time to worry about anything except trying to stop the man on top of him from punching his lights out. In any case Ann seemed to be faring better than he was.

Suddenly he heard the roar of a car engine and saw headlights bouncing wildly over the snow, then came Elena's voice again, yelling something. There were more shots. In the split second that his opponent was distracted he managed to drive one arm straight up into the man's face, knocking him sufficiently off balance for String to wiggle out from under. The man kicked at his legs. String stumbled and went down again with a grunt, but on top of the man this time. He smashed his right fist as hard as he could into the face under him, then for good measure landed a blow almost as hard with his left into the man's throat. He staggered to his feet, his legs rubbery and his vision blurry, and saw a little red Toyota reversing down the driveway towards them, swinging wildly from side to side.

It skidded to a stop a couple of feet away and he saw Elena at the wheel. Someone was shooting again; the rear window dissolved in a shower of glass. The two men who had followed them through the kitchen were now rushing forward, weapons at the ready. String scooped up a gun from one of his fallen opponents and fired almost without aiming. One of them went down; the other dove to the side. String fired a couple more shots in his direction, then applied the butt hard to the head of the man who was still tangled with Ann. He grabbed her arm, pulled open the back door of the Toyota, thrust her in and fell in on top of her. Elena floored the gas pedal and was charging back down the driveway before he could even get the door closed again.

"Are you okay?" he shouted as soon as he had enough breath, realizing that he and Ann were lying on top of shards of the rear window.

"I think so," she answered breathlessly, the car skidding again as she rounded the corner of the building and gunned the engine once more toward the front gate. "You?"

"Yeah." He looked at Ann and hastily put as much distance as he could between them while still keeping his head below the level of the rear window. "How about you?"

"I'm fine." She wasn't; she was pale and shaking.

"Oh, no," said Elena. String looked up to see two men struggling to slide the gates of the electrified fence closed across the main driveway. Presumably they had been opened for Horn and Dr. Fairling's arrival. They were having a hard time getting them closed again through the layer of snow. String sat up, stuck his arm out and let fly a couple more shots; the men abandoned the gates and took aim with their own weapons.

"Elena, keep your head down!" he said urgently. She hunched down as much as possible behind the wheel. Bullets whined off the hood and an immense spider web of cracked glass appeared in the windshield. They swerved wildly to the right, then Elena had the car back under control and aimed straight at the gates. String wasn't sure they had enough clearance left. One of the men resumed shoving frantically at his side and the gap narrowed even more.

With a nasty shriek of metal against metal, the little car hit the leading edge of both gates and scraped its way through, leaving several coats of paint behind.

"Nice driving, Elena," said String with warm approval as their unlikely getaway car shot down the road, bouncing and fishtailing around on the snowy surface.

"They'll follow us, won't they?" she said worriedly.

He looked back and could already see the lights of a bigger, taller vehicle ‒ probably a four-wheel drive - starting through the gates. "Yup," he said. "Don't worry. Just keep driving."

"Don't worry? You're _crazy_!"

He nearly started to laugh. "Not nearly as crazy as I used to be."

He checked the clip in the liberated Beretta M9. Only eight rounds remaining. He swept glass from the window ledge and took aim as carefully as he could at the pursuing vehicle. He needed to make every one of his eight shots count; the men behind had no such restriction. He ducked as a shot hit the window frame above him.

They slithered around a corner and up a hill. The wheels spun frantically near the top and the heavier, more surefooted vehicle behind gained substantially. String took advantage of it to send one bullet through the centre of the windshield. The 4X4 swerved, nearly going off the road, then took up the pursuit again. Behind it String caught a glimpse of more headlights.

They reached a series of S-bends, running downhill and then up again. Elena had a white-knuckled death grip on the wheel and found herself wishing that she had made it to St. Elzbieta's a bit more often. _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . . _

Just as they had made it to the top of another hill with yet another bend coming up a shot from behind blew out one of the rear tires. The Toyota fishtailed dramatically, hit the snowbank at the side of the road with enough force to send it over, and went tumbling down the wooded hillside, finally coming to a halt on the road below, right side up but with the engine stalled out.

They were almost at the main road by now and the trees had drawn back, leaving clear verges on either side. Elena managed to lift her head and look groggily through what was left of the windshield.

_What was that thing in front of them? And what was that weird droning noise?_

Fighting dizziness, she was able to turn her head enough to look into the back seat. Both String and Ann were still there, looking equally dazed. String's arms were wrapped protectively around Ann. Behind them the 4X4 came into view.

Ann looked at the thing in the road ahead of them and pulled herself away from String. "Well, it's about time!" she said, almost sounding happy. She put a hand on the door handle and tried to open it.

Gunfire erupted behind them. Elena wasn't sure if it was aimed at them or at the ‒ whatever it was. The second pursuit vehicle had arrived behind the first. More shots. Elena could only put her head down and pray.

There was what looked like a strangely localized blizzard in front of them as the thing rose into the air. The entire car was shaking. It climbed to a height of about twenty feet above them and suddenly let loose with gunfire far more powerful than anything that had been fired so far. The shooting behind them seemed to stop. Then the screaming began.

The thing came back to earth again, rocking slightly before settling onto three wheels. Nearby tree branches were being whipped by the powerful drafts it was creating. A door at the side opened and a figure in what looked like some kind of gray flight suit emerged and began to run toward them, slipping in the snow.

"What is it?" gasped Elena.

"Our ticket out of here," said Ann, struggling to get her door open and finally succeeding. "Come on," she shouted back impatiently at String, who was showing no signs of following her. Elena looked back at him. He was still looking dazed. Not only dazed, but increasingly terrified.

Elena suddenly realized that this must be his "black machine", the one that had caused him such horrible nightmares, sleeping and waking. Looking at it, Elena could understand his fear. The machine looked like a predator. A killer. It was a helicopter, all right ‒ she could see that now ‒ but she had never seen a helicopter that was black and white and as intimidating as this one.

She struggled with her own door - the frame had been bent in the tumble down the hillside ‒ and pulled herself out, reaching in toward him through the door Ann had left open. "String ‒ String, it's all right. It shot at the men chasing us. It's not going to hurt us."

String's eyes had gone wild. Suddenly he launched himself out of the car, sending her sprawling into the snow. Drawing the stolen gun, he fired wildly at the helicopter. The shots bounced off its surface in a series of tiny flares. The man in the gray flight suit dove over the snowbank at the side of the road, out of the line of fire. The firing pin clicked on an empty chamber. String flung himself into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine stuttered, then caught. Amazingly, the battered little car could still run. He floored the gas pedal and drove it straight at the black nose of the aircraft.

Someone was yelling ‒ the man in the flight suit. The helicopter lifted off again, rocking crazily from side to side. The Toyota shot through the space that it had occupied, slid out of control and went off the road, nose down into a deep snow-filled ditch. The engine stalled again. Nothing moved.

The man in the flight suit clawed his way back over the snowbank and ran toward the car. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the two women running in the same direction, but he was much closer to it than they were. He half-staggered, half-slid down into the ditch and yanked open the buckled front door.

The driver was folded over the wheel, motionless. The other man grabbed his shoulders, pulling him gently upright. "String?"

String squinted up at him blearily. There was something wrong with his eyes; he couldn't get them to focus properly. There was something familiar-looking about the man in the flight suit. His mouth formed the word "Dom?" but he couldn't quite get it past his lips. Everything was happening too fast, the adrenalin rush had receded, and he'd run out of strength to fend off the familiar darkness that was threatening to engulf him again.

"String?" the man repeated. "String, it's me, Dom! Are you all right?" Dumb question, he thought as soon as he'd spoken the words. Of course String wasn't all right. If he had been, he wouldn't be looking at Dominic Santini as if he'd just seen a ghost. He wouldn't have just fired at Airwolf and then tried to ram her.

There were more shots from behind them. Some of the surviving gunmen must have gathered their wits and their weapons sufficiently to start firing again. More headlights were coming down the hill from the direction of the clinic, and shots sounded from that direction as well. "Come on, String," said Dominic urgently. "We've gotta get you outta here. Think you can walk?"

The two women had arrived, breathless. One of them, dark-haired, with what looked like the beginnings of a big lump on her forehead, pushed him out of the way with a muttered apology and bent over String. "String, it's me, Elena. You have to get out of the car. It's not safe there. Now come on, let's get away from here and go someplace nice and warm. You'll be able to think better then. Come on, I know you can do it."

Dominic moved out of the way, watching in astonishment as the woman, who must have been much stronger than her slight figure suggested, got one arm around String and began to tug him out of the car. String wasn't being much help. As soon as he tried to stand, his legs buckled under him. Dom moved forward again, but Ann slipped past him and got String's other arm over her shoulders. Between them, the two women maneuvered him out of the ditch and toward the helicopter. Dom hovered close, wanting to help but afraid to interfere. If the situation hadn't been so urgent, he wasn't sure he would even want String anywhere near Airwolf right at the moment, until he found out what was wrong with him.

There was a sudden roar and an explosion, and the two vehicles that had been following them vanished in a huge fireball. That effectively put a stop to all the shooting. The car that had been making its way down the road was struggling to reverse back up the hill.

Dom got the two women and String, who wasn't much more than a limp bundle by now, into Airwolf, then squeezed past and into the engineer's seat. With Caitlin at the controls, they lifted off and headed westward into the still-dark sky. Behind them, the horizon was beginning to grow gray. The shells of the two cars still burned, and the flashing lights of emergency vehicles sped along the highway toward them.

----------------

They flew in a strange silence. More than anything else Dom wanted to take String by the shoulders, find out if he was okay and ask where the hell he'd been for the past eight months. But he couldn't. String wouldn't look in his direction, wouldn't even really look at anything, as if he was trying to pretend that he was someplace else entirely. He hadn't said a word. He still seemed to be in some kind of shock, and his face looked like he'd just taken a hell of a beating. At least he was quiet, if not exactly calm, showing no signs of the craziness he'd been displaying earlier. Dom was keeping his fingers crossed that he stayed that way.

The two women weren't in much better shape. They were both shaking with cold and reaction, and the one who seemed to be called Elena had a nasty bump on her forehead, probably from hitting the Toyota's steering wheel during the tumble down the hillside. Once they were in level flight Dom rummaged around in a storage bin and found a couple of blankets. He pulled one over Elena and String ‒ they were wedged in together in the little jump seat next to Dom's station ‒ and passed the other one up to the blonde woman in the co-pilot's position. He had only seen Angelica Horn once, but she had the kind of face that was hard to forget. What she was doing here he couldn't imagine. Caitlin, eyes locked ahead, was fairly vibrating with tension. Dom remembered only too well her declared intention of revenge on this woman after their first encounter with John Bradford Horn, and hoped that he wouldn't end up with a catfight on his hands at four thousand feet.

With the extra weight Airwolf was carrying, they had to make a stop to refuel. On Dom's advice, Caitlin put them down at a small airstrip just west of the Mississippi. While she went off to negotiate for a couple hundred gallons of Jet A and a bag of ice, Dom pulled off his helmet and checked on their passengers. Both Angelica and String appeared to be dozing. "How are you feeling?" he asked Elena.

She was still looking shaky, and the bump on her forehead was definitely swelling. "Not too good. Do you think I could get some fresh air? I'm not a very good flier."

"Oh, sure." Hastily he popped the left hatch. Elena crawled out stiffly and stood breathing in great gulps of the cold starlit air. "You wanna change spots with ‒ er, Miss Horn? You'd be more comfortable up front."

Ann had been awakened by the cold air. "Better not," she said quickly. Something happening there, thought Dom. String's hand shot out, belying his somnolent appearance, groping for Elena's sleeve like a kid grabbing for a security blanket. Elena gave Dom a watery smile. "I'll be okay where I am, thanks. Where are we going?"

"California."

"Is that where String lives?"

"Yeah."

Smiling again, she leaned back inside Airwolf. "Hear that, String? You're going home. You can finally show me that lake in the mountains."

No response. Aside from that one almost involuntary movement, String might have been newly dead.

"And you can't fool me, Stringling. I know you're awake. You know, if you'd rather not be here, I'm sure the nice gentleman can turn this helicopter around and take you back to the clinic. I'll bet Dr. Fairling would just love to see you again."

His eyes popped open. So did Dominic's. He'd never heard anyone take that coaxing, maternal tone with Stringfellow Hawke before. And he sure as hell would never have imagined String letting anyone call him Stringling.

"That's better," said Elena with satisfaction. "Your face is all bruised. I think there's some ice coming. How does the rest of you feel?"

"I'm fine," grunted String.

"Sure you are. Well, I could use some ice, even if you don't want it."

String reached out and touched her face gently. "You're hurt. I'm sorry."

"It's just a bump. I'll be okay."

He sat up more. "Elena, your car ‒ "

She shrugged and tried for a light tone, although truthfully she was more than a little upset about the demise of her faithful Toyota. "It was time for a trade in anyway."

Dom could see Caitlin approaching. She was carrying a couple of bags of ice in one hand and a cardboard tray of takeout coffee cups in the other. She also had the look of someone whose credit card has just taken a huge beating. "Fuel truck's on its way," she said. "I sure hope somebody reimburses me for this real soon. Here." She started handing around coffee cups.

"String, your friends have just saved our lives twice over," Elena informed him when she had her hands wrapped around one of the foam cups and a few sips of the heavenly hot brew inside of her. "Don't you think it's time you introduced us?"

"Uh ‒ yeah." For the first time his gaze slid in Dom's direction, then skittered away again as if embarrassed. "Dominic Santini, Caitlin O'Shannessy. Ann Strete, Elena Wojnowski." He looked directly at Elena and extended his hand to her with a flash of that ridiculously sweet smile of his. "Stringfellow Hawke."

Elena shook his hand, her face lighting up with happiness. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Hawke - at last."


	11. Chapter 11

When they landed the next time it was still dark. Airwolf had beaten the sun to California. Instead of an airstrip in the middle of nowhere they touched down on a helipad on the roof of a sprawling three-storey building.

By this time Hawke was genuinely asleep, as was Ann. Elena blinked drowsily as they settled to the concrete. "Where are we?" she asked, peering out.

"Welcome to California, Miss Wojnowski," said Dominic cheerfully.

Before Airwolf's rotors had come to a complete halt they were surrounded by what looked like a small army of people dressed in white. Hawke was gently but efficiently removed from the cockpit and loaded onto a stretcher. He came awake just as they were fastening the straps and, obviously having no idea where he was or what was going on but not taking any chances, promptly began to lash out, catching the nearest person across the midriff with more strength than by rights he should have been able to summon. Dominic jumped out, rushing to help calm him down, but Elena beat him to it, catching Hawke's hands in her own and doing her best to reassure him that he wasn't headed straight to another Green Hills.

Dom fell back and remained standing by Airwolf as the majority of the group accompanied the stretcher off the helipad toward an elevator. More than anything he still wanted to talk to Hawke, but it was obvious that now still wasn't the time. Besides, they couldn't leave Airwolf sitting on the Firm's roof, and he couldn't let Caitlin try to set her down in the Lair, solo and in the dark. In any case Hawke seemed to want Elena's reassurance at this point, not his.

"Dom!" yelled Hawke, just as the group with the stretcher reached the elevator. Dominic hurried over, hoping that Hawke wasn't picking this moment to have a tantrum about being in a hospital. God knew he looked like he needed to be in one. "I'm right here, String. What is it?"

"Make sure they look after Elena, okay? And Ann."

"Sure I will. Don't you worry."

The elevator doors opened and the stretcher and its attendants disappeared inside. There was still a little knot of people around Airwolf. One of them was Marella. Angelica, or Ann, or whoever, was standing a few feet away from them, arms wrapped around herself, looking lost.

Dominic exchanged a few words with Marella, who nodded and went over to the other woman. "Come on, Miss Horn. You look as if you could use some breakfast and a good cup of coffee."

"It's Strete, actually," Ann corrected her. "My name's not Angelica Horn any more. I'm not sure it ever really was."

"Oh? Well, we'll get our records straightened out, don't worry. This way." She led Ann toward the elevator. The remaining Firm people followed her. Dominic and Caitlin were left alone with Airwolf.

"Come on," said Dom after a while. "You and me got to put the Lady to bed. Then I think that idea of breakfast and coffee sounds good. You get in the back. I'll drive." He went around and opened Airwolf's starboard hatch.

When they were back in the air, Caitlin said, "Do you think he's all right?"

"How should I know? He looked okay. Not okay okay, but okay. If you know what I mean."

"Yeah."

"Anyhow, we got him back. That's the main thing." There was a pause. "What say we have some champagne with breakfast?"

Running true to form, Hawke adamantly refused to spend more than twelve hours under the Firm's roof. Dominic had expected that. After returning Airwolf to the Lair, eating a huge breakfast and grabbing a few hours' sleep, he had spent the rest of the day opening up Hawke's cabin, turning the water and electricity back on, bringing in firewood and restocking the kitchen. Dust was everywhere. Dom wiped off the bar, dining table and kitchen counters, then decided to leave the rest of the housecleaning for Hawke to worry about.

He brought Tet up as well. The big coonhound had adapted philosophically to an urban lifestyle, but seemed delighted to be back at the cabin. When Dom had reluctantly made the decision back in the fall to shut the place up until Hawke came back, Caitlin had volunteered to give Tet a home. Since then she'd been threatening on a regular basis to send Hawke a bill for all her property that his dog had chewed up, when ‒ not if (they never had allowed themselves to say "if") ‒ Hawke returned. Now Dom wondered if she'd really carry through with her threat.

He flew a silent, bruised-looking Hawke up to the cabin in the evening. When he'd gone to pick him up at the Firm Marella had given him an extremely brief summary of what had happened, but had felt it was up to Hawke himself to supply more information, when and how he felt like doing it. However, Hawke wasn't in a talkative mood, and although it was nearly killing Dominic not to press for more details, he managed to keep relatively quiet himself. He had thought the other man might have invited Elena along, but it seemed she'd made arrangements to stay temporarily with Caitlin. He dropped Hawke off on the dock.

"I really don't like this idea of you stayin' up here on your own, you know," he couldn't stop himself from saying as Hawke turned around to lift out a couple more bags of groceries.

"I know, Dom. I appreciate your concern. And I know we haven't had a chance to talk yet. But I just want to not have anyone around for twenty-four hours, at least. You understand?"

"Yeah. I'll be back tomorrow, though. Make sure you're really okay."

Hawke stepped back. "I'll catch us a couple trout for supper," he yelled over the noise for the rotors.

Dom nodded, gave him a grin and a thumbs up, and the Jet Ranger lifted off and headed back in the direction of the city.

Stringfellow Hawke hoisted the bags, walked slowly up the wooden steps to the cabin, and went inside.

Like a man dying of thirst in the desert who has just discovered a well, Hawke drank in solitude and couldn't get enough of it. He still wasn't ready for company when Dominic Santini, true to his word, reappeared the following evening, especially when he discovered that he'd brought Michael Coldsmith Briggs with him.

"I only caught enough fish for two people," he said by way of welcome.

"That's all right," said Michael easily. "There must be something else edible around here. Dominic told me he bought a kitchenful of groceries for you."

Hawke grunted. "How d'you feel about canned pork and beans?"

"Suits me. I'm glad to see you too, Hawke."

Hawke grinned and extended his hand. Michael clasped it.

After supper ‒ two plates of trout and one grilled steak, along with baked potatoes and a mammoth salad ‒ the three men sat down in front of the fireplace. Hawke had already built a sizeable blaze against the chilly weather of early March, and now he added a couple more logs to it. The cut-glass decanter of brandy sat on the coffee table so that each man could help himself.

Hawke slouched on the sofa. He was tired and his legs were sore, and he really wasn't in the mood for what he knew was coming. Archangel, on the other hand, looked bright and eager and extremely inquisitive, ready to rush in where Dominic had hesitated to tread. "Well?" he asked after he had filled his glass to a decent height.

"Well what?"

"Come on, Hawke. We need your story."

"You've already got it. I told Dr. Greenspan at the Firm yesterday."

"And I'm guessing that was a well-edited version."

"Ann can probably tell you more than I can."

"We've already got her story too. She wasn't there, until the end."

Hawke fortified himself with a gulp of brandy and unwillingly gave them a less expurgated version of the events he had described to the Firm's physician. Refreshingly, Archangel's interest appeared to be quite detached; he treated Hawke's stony-faced recital as if this was a debriefing after a routine mission. Hawke still left some of the details out. Not even Dom, and certainly not Archangel, needed to know everything that had happened. Even so, it was enough to leave both his listeners silent for several minutes after he finished.

Dom came over and embraced him, hard. "I'm sorry, String," he whispered. His voice cracked.

"For what?" said Hawke gruffly. Dominic's sympathy was proving harder to take than Archangel's businesslike questioning. "Nothing you could have done. I had a funny feeling somebody was watching me for awhile before I wiped out on the bike, but I never did manage to see anyone. And after it happened ‒ well, Horn obviously had the whole thing perfectly planned."

"He's a past master at covering his tracks," said Michael. "We didn't even have any information to indicate he was back in the country."

"Yeah, how about all that information of yours?" said Dominic cuttingly. "With that fancy computer and all those agents, how come nobody knew what Horn was up to?"

"Well, you know how perfect hindsight is," Michael replied evenly, knowing as well as Hawke did that Dominic had to say something to blow off steam. "We had no more reason to suspect Horn than any of the ‒ oh, dozen or so other people who might also have wanted to take a crack at Hawke, and had the means to cover their tracks so well. We did try to investigate him, as a matter of fact, but he was buried as deeply as ever. As I said, we had no idea he was even in the country."

"He probably wasn't," said Hawke. "I'll bet there's not much that can connect him to this, aside from Ann and that doctor."

"Well, we're certainly searching for the two of them right now. And we've already turned up some very interesting information about that Green Hills clinic. I doubt that place could pass more than a cursory inspection from any licensing authority. And we definitely want to talk to one or two of the patients there ‒ once they're not so well-medicated, that is."

Hawke looked at him sharply. "You mean there're other people who shouldn't have been there?"

"Mmm-hmm. It looks as though John Bradford Horn, amongst others, may have been maintaining the place as a sort of research facility cum holding area cum dumping ground for test subjects, such as yourself. The primary qualification for most of the people working there seems to be an ability to keep their mouths shut. In most cases this was because they had a criminal record ‒ ranging from speeding tickets to assault and battery ‒ and knew they'd have a hard time getting a job anywhere else if they tried to blow the whistle."

A pause. "What about Elena?" said Hawke finally, closely inspecting the contents of his balloon glass.

"Miss Wojnowski does indeed have a record, but nothing too heinous. She freely admitted it when we asked. A matter of walking out of a grocery store and neglecting to pay for her purchases, five years ago."

Hawke shrugged, then said suddenly, "What about a woman called Karen Moseby?"

"I don't recall the name, but I could find out if you want."

"Never mind. I can guess what her problem was."

"I'm guessing she's someone you didn't exactly have a rapport with," said Michael drily.

Hawke scowled at his brandy. "Goddamn bitch," he muttered.

Archangel raised an eyebrow, but Hawke didn't elucidate. There was another pause. "What happens to Ann now?" Hawke asked.

"In protective custody at the moment, pending placement in the witness protection program. She's quite willing to testify against John Bradford Horn. Obviously she'll make an extremely valuable witness for the D.A."

Dominic snorted. "If there's ever a trial, you mean. I notice you didn't say how close you thought you were to tracking him down."

Michael opened his mouth to reply, but Hawke cut across him. "Doesn't matter. You'll never find Horn by looking for him. There's only one way of getting to him for sure."

"Which is?"

"He's going to come looking for me."

Dominic nearly exploded. "String, he's already come looking for you, in case you've forgotten. That didn't work out so well for you, did it? The only reason you're here right now is 'cause you had a little help from your friends!"

"I know that, Dom," said Hawke, looking full at him. "And I might need that help again."

"Do you have a plan?" said Michael quickly, leaning forward while Dominic flung his hands up and rolled his eyes heavenwards.

Hawke shook his head slowly. "Not yet. I haven't even figured out what he wanted me for in the first place." He heaved himself off the sofa and topped up all their glasses. "Stay tuned."

Dom waved a dismissive hand at him. "You're nuts, you know that?" Realizing what he'd just said, he looked horrified. "God, I'm sorry, String ‒ "

"Forget it," said Hawke with a grin. "You're probably right, anyway."

After that they sipped the brandy in an easy silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and an occasional yawn from Tet, until Dom said, "Well, some of us have an early start in the morning. Michael, you about ready to go?"

"Mmm." Michael quickly finished the last of his drink. "Hawke, the doctors are going to want to see you again. You know that, don't you?"

Hawke grunted.

"They need to make sure whatever it was that the Fairling woman gave you is completely out of your system, and that your head's screwed on straight again. Or at least as straight as it ever was to begin with. And they've made up a physiotherapy schedule for you to get your leg muscles built up."

Hawke grunted again.

"Don't worry," said Michael, getting to his feet and following Dominic to the door. "I told them to leave you alone for a week. But if you happen to notice John Bradford Horn lurking behind a tree, you let me know, all right? I'll send in Zebra Squad."

After the others had gone Hawke realized he was too tired to do anything about cleaning up in the kitchen, too tired even to climb the stairs to the loft and go to bed. He snagged a blanket from the storage chest under one of the windows and went to sleep on the couch.

Halfway back to Van Nuys in the Santini Air helicopter, Archangel said, "Well? What do you think?"

Dominic kept his eyes straight ahead. "I think he's way too thin, and his eyes are weird."

Michael nodded. That might not be a proper medical description, but it summed up Hawke's state pretty accurately.

"I don't see why you're not worried about Horn trying to nab String again while he's vulnerable. He shouldn't be up at that cabin on his own."

"In the first place, that cabin is probably the safest place for him. Nobody but a deer or a rabbit can sneak up on him there. And I meant what I said about sending in Zebra Squad. But he'd been spending most of his time in the city when Horn got him in July, hadn't he?"

Dominic nodded. Santini Air had actually taken on two film contracts at the same time last summer, something that he swore he would never do again. It had been highly lucrative, but it meant that all three of them had practically been living at the hangar for several weeks.

"Well, then. I think Horn realized it would be a helluva lot easier to get to Hawke in the city rather than on his home turf. Secondly, Horn may be despicable, but he's not stupid. He was there at that clinic in New Hampshire when Hawke escaped. Now we know that he's exceptionally good at getting out of tight places, but even he is going to want to go to ground for a while at this point, keep a lower profile than a snake until all the shouting dies down a bit. If I were him, I wouldn't stick my nose out of my hole for at least a month."

"I still think we could do more. Why couldn't you put him up at Knightsbridge for a while?"

"We're not in the hotel business, Dominic," said Archangel mildly.

"You know what I mean. At least if he was at the Firm he'd be safe and you could make sure he was healthy at the same time."

"And you think he'd stay at Knightsbridge?"

"No," Dom admitted reluctantly.

"Besides, if Horn has half the brains I'm giving him credit for, he'll cut his losses at this point and move on to some other dastardly scheme. Between losing Ann and us being able to connect him with Green Hills, he's got a lot more to worry about than Hawke and Airwolf ‒ if Airwolf was ever meant to be part of this."

"I don't think brains have anything to do with it," said Dominic soberly. "I think we're talking about obsession here. Are you gonna tell me I'm wrong?"

Archangel sighed. "No. I'm not."


	12. Chapter 12

His next visitor was Ann Strete.

Dominic brought her up several days later and then made himself scarce, taking out Hawke's fishing skiff along with a rod, some bait and a cooler of beer, although Hawke noticed that his chosen spot for dropping a line was still within eyesight of the dock. He wasn't sure which one of them the older man felt he should keep in hailing distance for.

Ann stood in front of the fireplace and stared at the paintings on the walls, while Hawke pretended to be absorbed in doing an inventory of the bottles behind the bar.

"I guess they told you I'm going into the witness protection program," she said to the galloping horses above the mantle.

"Uh-huh." Maybe Dom would pick him up some a couple bottles of Pinot Noir. And beer, he was definitely getting low on beer.

"So, three days from now, I'm going to become somebody else."

"Good." He felt he ought to clarify that. "I mean, it's the best thing for you. Safest. Horn hates my guts, but he's got just as much reason to hate yours now."

"I guess. I was just starting to get used to being myself again."

"You'll get used to your new self."

"Maybe." Silence. Then, "Anyhow, I just wanted to say goodbye."

"Bye."

Something snapped. She spun around to face him. "Damn you, Hawke, this is really scary for me! Do you really hate me that much?"

Startled, he lost count of the bottles. Slowly he said, "I don't hate you, Ann. I did once. There was a time when I could easily have broken your neck if I had the chance, yours and Horn's both. But I guess you were just about as much a pawn as I was. What would Horn have done to you if you'd refused to get involved?"

"Gotten rid of me. Then found someone else to seduce you."

"Exactly."

"But still ‒ I truly hated what I was doing. When they dragged you off into that place of his in Texas, I would have given anything to have been able to change his mind. Or at least to have gotten away so I'd never have to see what happened to you."

"You helped me this time."

"No I didn't," she said bitterly. "I thought I could, but I couldn't. You helped yourself. I could have told you how to contact Dominic Santini, that would have been helpful. But I didn't even do that, because I was still too afraid. And when you finally did escape, it was really Elena's doing."

"_You_ would have gotten me out, Ann. If only I hadn't ‒ " He broke off, swallowing hard. He still couldn't think about that. He'd assaulted her, come within a hair's breadth of raping her. He'd already tried a couple of times to rationalize what he'd done ‒ that he subconsciously still wanted to settle a score with Ann over what she'd done to him in the past, that emotionally speaking he'd been about as stable at that point as the San Andreas Fault, that he did have some kind of legitimate grievance with her, both for what had happened before and for her not getting him out Horn's clutches more quickly ‒ and dismissed it all as a pile of bullshit. The fact that she still trusted him enough to be in the same room with him was unbelievable. "God, Ann, I'm sorry."

"You're sorry, I'm sorry." She managed a lopsided smile. "Do two sorries cancel each other out? You know, so maybe nothing ever happened for either one of us to be sorry about?"

"I wish. I don't think it's that simple."

She took a deep breath, looking again at the painting over the fireplace. "Before I go – can you at least tell me that you believe me? About how I felt about what I did to you?"

He really didn't want to think about all that anymore. On balance, he'd already decided that Ann was most likely telling him the truth. But it didn't change the fact that whatever her motivations had been, without her acting as a lure he would probably never have fallen into Horn's hands, and none of what followed would have taken place. "I told you. We were both pawns."

There was another silence. If Ann was waiting for him to say anything more, she was disappointed.

"Okay then. Since we can't kiss each other and make it all better, can you at least wish me well?"

"Of course. I really hope everything does go well for you."

"And I wish you well. And success against John Bradford Horn."

"What makes you think I'm going to try going up against him?"

"Well, you are, aren't you? Because I know you're not going to be able to live with yourself if you don't do your damnedest to take him down."

"Maybe."

"Am I wrong?" she said challengingly.

One corner of his mouth turned up. "Naw. You're not wrong."

"Well, then . . . " She looked out the window. "I think this is a good note for me to leave on, but it looks like my pilot is still out in the middle of the lake."

Hawke lifted a couple of bottles. "Want a beer?"

They drank the beer, and then Ann said she would go and sit on the dock and wait for Dominic. An hour later he returned and shortly afterwards the Jet Ranger lifted off. Ann didn't come back to say goodbye.

Hawke was glad she'd come, and even more glad that he was never going to see her again.

The day before he was supposed to go back to Knightsbridge, Caitlin arrived with Elena. His co-worker raced up the steps from the dock and flung her arms around him, nearly knocking him over. "Welcome back, Hawke," she said, hugging him tightly.

He hugged her back. "Thanks. It's good to be back. And it's a good thing you've got such quick reflexes or else I would have put a big dent in Airwolf back in New Hampshire."

"What? Oh, that. Well, I guess you weren't really thinking too clearly right then."

"Something like that." He looked over at Elena, who was loitering down on the dock. He caught her eye and waved at her to come join them. "It's good to see you. I hear you've been staying with Cait."

"That's right. She's been very kind."

"Oh, no," Caitlin protested. "It's fun having company."

"I really just asked Caitlin if I could come with her so I could see how you were doing." She stood back and scrutinized him. "You're looking – amazing." Physically, the change in him was almost miraculous.

"Must be the fresh air. Hey, come here." He put the arm that wasn't still holding Caitlin around Elena and squeezed tightly. "Glad you came."

When he released her, she said brightly, "I should let you two have a chance to talk." She looked around and saw Tet. "So that's the dog that's eaten all Caitlin's furniture! Do you want me to take him for a walk? He looks like he'd like some exercise."

Hawke looked at Tet, who was the picture of lethargy as he sprawled in the one sunny patch on the front porch, said "Sure" and went off to find the leash. He clipped one end to the dog's collar and handed her the other. "Just don't let him chase any rabbits, unless you want to be running after him all the way back to town. And if you get lost, Tet knows all the ways home."

"That's reassuring. Come on, Tet, you want to show me around?"

The big hound yawned, then lumbered to his feet and good-naturedly allowed Elena to lead him away.

Left alone with Caitlin, Hawke asked, "You want a drink or anything? Coffee?"

"Coffee would be great." She followed him into the cabin. "I would have come up sooner to see how you were, but Dom told me you had the 'Do Not Disturb' sign hung out."

"Not for you."

"Yeah, right."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "You think I'm that antisocial?"

"I think that if half of what Dom told me was true, you're probably wishing you could be a hermit for the rest of your life. And I wouldn't blame you."

"And what exactly did Dom tell you?" he asked, pouring coffee from the pot sitting on the stove top into a blue and white mug and handing it to her. She took a sip and regarded him over the rim.

"Don't worry, he didn't give me too many gory details. Just that ‒ they'd drugged you and messed with your mind so you didn't know who you were anymore. And ‒ you'd had a real hard time in that place."

"I wouldn't recommend it for a vacation spot, but we're not talking POW camp hard, Cait. Don't make too big of a deal about it."

"He also told me that John Bradford Horn was responsible for the whole thing. And that Angelica, or Ann or whatever the hell her name is, was there and you let her go."She hadn't meant that last sentence to come out quite so accusingly, not at this point at least, but it was too late to retract the words now.

Hawke busied himself in the kitchen, washing a cup that didn't need it and pulling stuff out of cupboards that he didn't want. He had a feeling he was treading on quicksand discussing Angelica Horn with Caitlin ‒ or maybe blowing on sparks. "You know, I never did figure out exactly what you had against her," he said with his back turned.

"Amongst other things, making me think I'd killed you. Making you think you'd killed Dom." She wasn't going to list all the other reasons. Some of them he probably knew anyway: they were the same ones he had for feeling what he did about Horn. Some of the others she hoped he never would figure out.

"That was Horn. Ann was just the bait. She didn't have much of a choice."

"Sure she did. I'll bet it suited her to have a nice, tame Stringfellow Hawke around as much as it did her daddy. Just for different reasons." She'd come dangerously close to blabbing something she'd wanted to keep quiet about. She took a gulp of coffee to stop herself from saying anything more and burned her mouth. Wincing, she stared down at the mug in her hands.

"Let it go, Cait," said Hawke gently. "That's what I did. You can sleep better at night that way."

"Have you let Horn go yet?"

"That's different."

"Uh huh."

"Ann's not a threat to either one of us now. Horn is."

"Dom said you want him to come looking for you. If catching him isn't still personal for you, why not leave it to Archangel and the Firm to track him down?"

"Because Airwolf and I are the best bait there is."

"And there's nothing the teensiest bit personal about it?"

He sighed heavily, then lifted his head and looked her in the face. That was the least he could do, after just telling her she should drop her own grudge. "Well ‒ maybe a bit. No, listen, Cait. This was the third time Horn's come after me, or Airwolf, or both. If I don't give stopping him my best shot, I'm gonna be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, wondering if he's behind me somewhere. You're right. I did have a hard time at that so-called clinic. I don't want to take a chance on something like that ever happening again. I'd rather Horn just shot me outright than go back there so doped up I don't even know who I am. So if putting myself out there as bait is the best way to draw him out, I'll do it. And if I get a chance to blow him off the face of the earth with a Hellfire, I'll do that too. With pleasure."

Caitlin looked at him, wide-eyed. That had to be one of the longest speeches she'd ever heard from him.

He turned away and hefted the coffee pot and said in a normal voice, "More coffee?"

Elena and Tet returned half an hour later. Hawke was already starting to put supper things together.

Elena was slightly out of breath. "Evidently he likes squirrels as well as rabbits."

Hawke scratched one ear, grinning. "Didn't pull your arm off, did he?"

"No, but it's a good thing he can't climb trees." She stared around the cabin in amazement, taking in the furnishings, the paintings on the walls, the cello in its stand. "Oh, my goodness," she breathed.

Then she noticed the food preparations underway. "Are we staying?" she asked hesitantly.

"Well, sure," replied Caitlin. "Didn't come all the way up here just to turn and go back home again half an hour later. I'm just staying for supper, but Hawke wants some time to show you around, so I'll pick you both up tomorrow and take you to Knightsbridge. That way Hawke can have someone to hold his hand when he talks to the doctors."

"Stop him from punching them out, more likely," said Elena. Hawke grinned again. "But I didn't ‒ "

"Pack a bag? Don't worry, I put some stuff together for you. It's in the chopper."

"But you and Hawke ‒ don't you want ‒ "

"Naw, he's already had all the welcome he's gonna get from me. And in case you hadn't noticed, Elena, Hawke here doesn't talk an awful lot. So there's no point in me wasting a whole evening sitting here waiting for him to tell me everything that happened and cry on my shoulder, because he won't. You want a glass of wine while the chef works?"

Caitlin helped clear up after supper and with drying the dishes, then left for the city.

Once the beat of the Jet Ranger's rotors faded the only sound was the breeze in the pines.

Hawke and Elena stood on the dock leaning against the wooden railing. After awhile Elena said, "I've never seen anywhere so peaceful. I can see why this place stuck in your mind when nothing else did."

Hawke said nothing. His head was tilted back, watching the constellations.

"And thank you again for that wonderful supper. It was so nice having you serve me a meal for a change."

He had to laugh at that. "With proper cutlery, even."

"Yes, and sharp knives. That was a delicious steak, by the way. You can certainly cook meat, even if you don't eat it."

He dipped his head in acknowledgment.

"When I think of all the awful stuff we shoved into you at Green Hills . . . oh, String, I'm sorry. I don't mean to keep harping on about that place. Forget I mentioned it."

"Well, it was your job," he said reasonably. "I don't know if you liked it or not, but at least you did it well. You really feel for people."

"I felt for _you_. I think I knew all along that you didn't belong there. I'm just sorry I never did anything about it before."

"I know why you didn't do anything about it, Elena. For one thing, you had absolutely no proof. And you were worried about getting another job if you wound up losing that one."

"Did Mr. Briggs tell you about that?" she said, her face going red.

He shrugged. "You're not exactly a hardened criminal. In fact, you were about the only decent person there. Do you want to go back?"

"I don't think I could. I'm not even sure there's a clinic there to go back to."

"Maybe not," he allowed. "But honestly, what do you want to do now? I just let you follow me into Airwolf and hauled you off to California without asking if you wanted to come. You left everything behind, including your livelihood. Plus I wrecked your car and I haven't reimbursed you for it yet."

"The car was about all I had that was worth anything," she admitted candidly. "As for what I want to do now ‒ well, I haven't figured that out yet. I guess I'm unemployed. I've always worked as a nurse's aide ‒ not a great job, but it paid the bills, more or less. It's scary not knowing where my next paycheck's coming from - or if it's even coming at all. And I can't sleep on Caitlin's couch forever. She's a lovely girl, but I don't want to keep imposing on her. I'm going to have to start looking for a job pretty darn soon. Know any hospitals around here that hire shoplifters?" Her voice had started to shake. She wiped impatiently at her eyes. "Oh God, listen to me. I'm sorry, String, I didn't mean to pour out everything like that. And I haven't gone through anything like what you have. I don't know why I'm feeling so sorry for myself all of a sudden."

"Hey, I asked."

"I'm going to start looking for a job first thing Monday morning. I'll find something. You don't have to worry about me."

"But don't you want to take a break for a while? Play tourist or something?"

"I don't think I know how to take a break. And I can't afford to play tourist."

Something suddenly occurred to him. "What about your home? You had a place, right?"

"That's another problem. Since I've been here, I missed paying this month's rent. I just hope my landlord hasn't packed up all my stuff and tossed it out."

"Come on inside. It's getting too cold out here." He led the way back to the cabin, sat her down on the sofa and built up the fire, then put a fresh pot of coffee on the stove. "Now listen. You come down to Knightsbridge with me tomorrow. I'll get the money for your car. Don't argue, what happened to it was completely my fault, and if you tried to go through your insurance they'd never believe you. Give me your landlord's address and I'll get your rent taken care of, so you don't have to worry about your belongings."

"String, you don't have to ‒ "

"Yes I do, because I'm still going to need your help. I was kind of hoping you hadn't made any plans yet. I know when I see the doctors tomorrow they're going to have a whole list of stuff they want me to do. Physio or rehab or whatever they call it. Would you mind very much staying up here for a while and helping me with it? It would make a lot of difference."

"Of course I will, if you want me to."

"And after that something's bound to turn up. Don't worry."

"String ‒ "

"What? You don't want to stick around?"

She gave in, smiling at last. "I do. Very much. Although I doubt you really need my help with anything anymore."

"You'd be surprised. Some mornings I swear I still need help just to get out of bed."

"Fine. I can do that. But I am _not_ helping you in the bathroom."

"That won't be a problem," he said hastily. "Well, now that we've got that settled . . . " He turned and began rummaging around near the stereo, finally holding up an LP. "Here we are. Bach's cello suites. I knew it was around here somewhere." He placed it on the turntable and set the needle down. "Dedicated to you."

Elena found herself blushing. Hawke crooked an eyebrow at her, and grinned.


	13. Chapter 13

After Dominic had deposited them both at Knightsbridge the next morning, Hawke's first order of business was to deal with Elena's immediate financial affairs. That taken care of, he headed to his first medical appointment.

Marella came to find him later in the day. He'd gone one round with Archangel's shrinks, a second round with a bunch of people who poked and prodded at him and drew samples of his blood, and a third with the physiotherapists, and now all he wanted to do was to collect Elena and get out of there. "What is it?" he asked, not very graciously.

"Michael wants to see you."

"Thanks, I figured that. What for?"

"If I told you, that would spoil the surprise." She ignored the roll of his eyes and led the way back to Archangel's office. Waiting there was not only Michael but Dominic and Caitlin as well.

"Congratulations, Hawke," said Michael. "Pending the results of the toxicology testing, Dr. Greenspan thinks you're recovering quite well. Unless you start experiencing problems of any kind, he doesn't want to see you again until your next follow-up appointment in two weeks."

"You could have put that in a letter and mailed it to me," grumbled Hawke, slumping into a chair. He was unpleasantly surprised by how exhausted he was feeling, after a day of doing little more than sitting still. Not only that but the whole procedure, even though Archangel's staff had been pleasant and professional, had caused him one or two flashbacks to his sessions with Dr. Fairling, which had been unsettling to say the least. In spite of being so tired, he doubted he was going to sleep very well that night. "So what's with the conference?"

"We've found something that might interest you." Marella seated herself at the computer keyboard.

"It sure as hell interested _me_," said Michael.

Marella tapped keys, and the photograph of a man's face appeared on the monitor. Swarthy complexion, black hair swept back, broad cheekbones; between the graininess of the photo and the sunglasses the man was wearing, it was impossible to tell any more. "Know him?" asked Michael.

"No."

The picture split into two photos, one the original, the other the same man in profile. Hawke shook his head. He really couldn't care less who this man was, although from Michael's attitude he knew he ought to.

"His name's Jhagesh Khan," said Marella. "He has at least three aliases, but that's the name on the passport he was using when he met with . . . "

"Drum roll, please," interjected Michael, fairly rubbing his hands with glee.

" . . . John Bradford Horn in Dubai last month."

Hawke sat bolt upright.

"And who the hell is Jhagesh Khan?" asked Dominic.

"Mr. Khan is an Oxford-educated Indian national, an internationally respected political author and commentator. His usual theme is the rights of the individual versus the state, but in the last two or three years his topic has tended to be the rights of the small state versus the larger, or God forbid, the superpower."

"And what does a political author want with Horn?"

"Probably nothing. But under the alias of Aras Tarbet, Khan has been heavily involved in an attempt to form a small breakaway state called Bakustan, in an area of northern India on the border of Nepal. And under the alias of Deepak Pandya, he does some pretty lucrative trading in both weapons and dope."

"I still don't see what any of 'em would want with Horn," objected Dom.

"Maybe this will make things a bit clearer. Marella, play the tape, would you?"

"This was recorded by a Firm agent who had bugged Khan's Dubai hotel room," explained Marella. "When it was realized that our division was actively looking for any current information on Horn, a copy of the tape was made available to us." She hit another key and the sound of a man's voice came tinnily out of the speakers.

"Good morning, John. So kind of you to make time to come and see me. I know your schedule is very full." A smooth, deep voice, tinged with a British accent.

"Not at all. I can always make time for you, Jhagesh."

Hawke went rigid, feeling his heart rate jump. The second voice belonged to John Bradford Horn.

There were noises on the tape: footsteps and the chink of glasses as drinks were poured. Then Khan spoke again. "Do forgive me if I seem importunate, John, but I hadn't received any word from you for quite some time. I just wanted some reassurance that everything is still going well."

"Everything is going just fine. Dr. Fairling has been getting regular updates from the clinic. It's been nearly two months since Hawke has received any treatment and he's still completely under control. She'll be returning to the U.S. in about a month and the next phase can begin any time after that."

"The next phase . . . " said Khan musingly. "I still find it very disconcerting that a man's mind can be played with so easily. A few doses of some mystery drug, a few suggestions spoken in the ear of the subconscious, and this very strong-willed man is little more than a drooling infant. And then ‒ a snap of the fingers, and hey presto! He is recovered, yet willing and able to do whatever his new master commands. I must say, I disliked the entire idea enormously when you first proposed it, and I haven't changed my mind since."

Hawke felt his stomach lurch. His fists were clenched so tightly that his nails were being driven into his palms.

"It's not quite as simple as you make it sound," Horn was saying, obviously not interested in disputing Khan's ethical concerns. "I understand from Dr. Fairling that the next step will likely be rather tricky. Bringing him back to relative normal so that he can retrieve Airwolf and fly her while still, as you put it, doing what his master commands. And while I deeply regret injecting a mercenary element into this conversation, might I remind you that Hawke's condition will not remain stable forever? According to the doctor, the longer he stays the way he is now, the harder it will be to re-program him and the less likely it is that the re-programming will be successful. I've yet to receive the next payment that will allow phase two to begin."

"Ah, well, no one can anticipate all contingencies. I am afraid that some events are running slightly behind schedule, and I am not yet ready for Airwolf to make her appearance in Bakustan."

"And I assume that the next installment of the twenty-five million dollars is also running slightly behind schedule."

"You assume correctly."

There was a short silence, then Horn said, "I'll need to give Dr. Fairling some kind of time frame before she returns to the U.S."

"It's difficult to be specific, John. Have you ever presided over the birth of a country? No? Let me assure you, these things do not run according to specific time frames. The wind must blow from the right quarter, not too strongly, not too lightly; all the heavenly bodies, it seems, must be in correct alignment, and all the auguries must be propitious; and augurs being what they are, it's very difficult to find omens to satisfy everyone."

"I agree, it's so hard to find good augurs these days."

Khan laughed merrily, seemingly not in the least offended. "It is indeed. But you might have been well advised to consult one or two yourself before your first encounter with Stringfellow Hawke; if you had, you might be ensconced right now on that cosy little Caribbean island you had your eye on . . . I should hope to require the services of Mr. Hawke and Airwolf in no more than six months. Hopefully less."

"You might want to consider that old maxim _carpe diem,_ and forget about the omens. Keeping Hawke hidden away and under control is expensive, not to mention the danger that the Firm may regain possession of Airwolf in Hawke's absence. I may have to raise my price."

"Or cut your profit margin."

"I'm a businessman, Jhagesh."

"Oh, come now, John. You will be prolonging your revenge on the man; and that has always been far more important to you than any amount of money, has it not?"

"It's been a consideration, certainly." Horn sounded like he was smiling.

"Well, then, we will both have our satisfaction from Mr. Hawke in the end. Now I do hate to be so discourteous, but I have another appointment shortly, and I know you're a busy man . . . rest assured, I'll give you a more definite date before long."

Horn left the room amid mutual politeness and well-wishing. Marella pushed a button to stop playback.

Hawke knew they were all looking at him. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do most right then: crawl away and hide somewhere, or get his fingers wrapped tightly around John Bradford Horn's throat and begin squeezing. Hard. Until he felt something break.

"At twenty-five million dollars, Mr. Khan was going to get quite a bargain," said Archangel drily, "considering Airwolf's original R&D costs to the Firm. I suppose it's because she's second-hand."

"That was horrible," said Caitlin. She sounded like she was almost in tears.

"I'm sorry, Hawke," said Marella gently. "But at least now we know what Horn wanted you and Airwolf for."

"Yeah," he murmured. Getting to his feet with an effort, he said, "Dom, you ready to go? I don't think I want to stick around here any longer."

He didn't say a word on the flight back to the cabin. Muttering something in Dominic's direction, he jumped out of the helicopter almost as soon as the skids touched the dock and moved quickly up the steps.

"What's wrong?" Elena asked worriedly from the back seat.

Dom took off his headphones as the rotors slowly cycled down, then turned around to face her. "We just found out what Horn wanted with String. He was gonna sell him and Airwolf for twenty-five million bucks to some guy wanting to start up his own country in northern India."

"But String would never ‒ "

"By the time Horn and that tame doctor of his got finished with him, he sure as hell would. Sounds like Horn figured he'd be able to make String fetch and roll over for him and be happy to do it. String's a little upset. It's kinda made him forget his manners."

"Oh," she said weakly.

"Look, I don't know about you, but I could really do with some supper and I doubt String's gonna be too interested in cooking right now. Let's you and I see what we can find in his kitchen."

"Will he mind?" Elena didn't want to take any risks of offending Hawke, not considering the look on his face when he'd gotten out of the helicopter.

"Naw. Come on."

Hawke was at the bar, loading ammunition into his big stainless steel Smith & Wesson. He barely looked up as they came in.

"You're picking a funny time to go target shooting," said Dom. "In case you hadn't noticed, it'll be dark in a few minutes."

"You staying?"

"Thought I might."

Hawke shoved the gun in his belt and another couple of clips in his pocket, then headed for the door. He turned briefly and said to Elena, "Don't worry if you hear some shooting." Then he was gone again.

Elena swallowed. She'd never had any experience with guns beyond TV shows and movies, and the casual way Hawke handled the things terrified her. "Dom, he wouldn't do anything ‒ anything stupid, would he?"

"Like blowing his own brains out, you mean? Naw, don't you worry, honey. He'll be wanting to save all his bullets for Horn." Dominic busied himself building the fire. Elena opened a few kitchen cupboards but found herself staring sightlessly at Hawke's pantry with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering slightly.

Dominic came over and steered her toward the fireplace, then fetched a knitted afghan and draped it over her shoulders. "Hey, you want me to take you back to the city tonight rather than staying up here? Cait'll be happy to put you up again."

She almost said yes, then shook her head no. "I don't want him to think that he scared me away. Not that I care if he thinks I'm a chicken. I know I'm a chicken. But people shouldn't think that their own friends are scared of them."

"That's a nice thought," said Dominic approvingly. "Don't you worry, he'll be fine after he's blown off some steam. String can look mean; hell, he can _be_ mean sometimes. But he'd never do anything to hurt a friend. I've known him since he was a little kid, and I can tell you, he's not always what you might call a _nice_ person, exactly. But he's a _decent_ person."

He'd attacked Ann Strete, though, which qualified as neither nice nor decent. She wondered if Dominic knew about that. Did Ann count as a friend? She'd never been sure about that. Obviously Ann and String had had some history, probably been lovers, but it hadn't sounded as if they'd actually been friends. Even so, was there any justification for what had nearly been a rape? String was the only person who could tell her that, and she could hardly ask him.

"And you're not a chicken, either," Dominic was continuing. "If you were, you wouldn't be here right now, you'd still be sitting back at that clinic. You and String both." He squeezed her shoulders. "Now, let's get some coffee going, huh? Then I'm pretty sure I brought up some cans of stew the last time I did a grocery run for that big grouch."

Elena couldn't help smiling. Dominic Santini knew the real String better than she did, after all. And she had a feeling she could trust Dominic. Maybe she was just a sucker for that adorable smile, but in the sane and daylight world, she herself was quite sure that String was no rapist. It would take a more judgmental mind than hers to decide if he could be held accountable for his actions in the strange mental underworld in which he'd been forced to exist at Green Hills.

Dom dealt with the antique wood-burning stove with the ease of long practice, and the two of them drank coffee and ate warmed-up canned beef stew. A large section of Hawke's pantry seemed to be set aside for provisions for guests ‒ either Hawke realized that not everyone cared for a steady diet of trout, or else Dominic knew he was shopping for himself ‒ with some fruit and cookies for dessert. He helped her clean up, then, after a renewed offer to take her back with him and her repeated refusal, he left.

After the helicopter was gone, the only sound was the crackling of flames in the fireplace. Elena considered locking the door, but decided not to. She didn't want Hawke smashing a window or shooting out the lock if he came back and couldn't get in.

Hawke didn't come back. Eventually Elena fell asleep on the sofa. At some point the sound of distant gunfire brought her awake with a start, heart pounding, but soon everything was silent again. Elena flopped back to the cushions. _I'm glad I'm not a deer_, she thought.

Thinking of the look on Hawke's face as he stood there loading his gun, she shivered and thought, _I'm really glad I'm not John Bradford Horn, either._

The next time she woke up, it was bright daylight and Hawke was in the kitchen scrambling eggs. Not only had he managed to slip into the cabin after his nocturnal ramblings without waking her, he'd shaved and, judging by his damp hair, had showered as well. If she'd slept through all that, obviously the soporific effect of the fresh air here was more than enough to counterbalance her troubled state of mind.

Maybe that was true for Hawke as well. Considering how he'd looked yesterday evening, he now appeared remarkably relaxed as he pushed eggs around in the skillet. "Morning," he greeted her.

"Unh." Elena realized she'd fallen asleep in her clothes. "I'll be right back." She went upstairs ‒ yes, the bed had definitely been slept in ‒ showered and changed. By the time she came back down, the eggs were on the table, along with orange juice, toast, butter and marmalade.

He poured her a cup of coffee. "Sorry about last night. I just needed to calm down, I guess. Hope I didn't wake you when I was shooting."

She was suddenly very glad that she hadn't given in to her desire to get the hell away from the cabin, and him. "I think I heard some of that. But otherwise I slept fine."

He nodded. They ate in silence, until Hawke suddenly said, "Did Dom tell you what happened yesterday? That we finally found out why Horn wanted me?"

She replied carefully, "He just said something about Horn planning to turn you and Airwolf over to somebody who was going to pay him a lot of money for your services, to help him start up a new country, or something. It sounded unbelievable."

"My services. That's a laugh. More like slave labour." He was beginning to tense up again. Well, thought Elena, I've been here before; I know how to deal with this.

"Think of it this way, isn't it flattering to think that someone is willing to pay twenty-five million dollars for you?" she said, gently mocking. "I mean, I don't suppose he'd want to spend that kind of money on _me. You're _special."

Hawke gave her a filthy look. Elena ignored it and rose briskly from the table. "Now come on and help me get this stuff cleaned up. Don't you have some exercises to do?"

"Oh, come on. I was wandering around in the forest for most of the night. I'm _tired._"

"So?" she said heartlessly. "Where's that list the physio people gave you? You were the one who said you wanted to do this."

"Slave-driver."

"Don't worry. You can have a nice afternoon nap."

Of course, as she had known, Hawke was the real slave-driver of the two, demanding far more of himself than anyone else would have done. Over the following two weeks he worked out almost non-stop in one form or another. Rather than encouraging him, she found herself trying to prevent him from over-doing his self-imposed fitness regimen. She was beginning to wonder if he possessed any gears at all between neutral and overdrive.

When he did stop, he usually loaded his gun for a bout of target practice. She suspected that he saw Horn's face on every target he set up.

Occasionally, he seemed to zone out, staring off into space with whatever he'd been doing forgotten. It was the only physical sign she could detect that the long course of Dr. Fairling's treatment hadn't entirely relinquished its hold. In isolation, it seemed even spookier than it had when it was his normal state. It didn't happen often and when it did it didn't last longer than a few minutes; by the end of the second week the episodes seemed to have stopped entirely.

The only facet of his old life that he didn't seem eager to resume was flying Airwolf. He didn't mention it, and Elena had no idea whether the helicopter simply wasn't that important to him, or if he had some perfectly valid reason for not talking about it. Maybe he just wasn't feeling physically ready for flying yet, or maybe he needed to have a specific, important reason to use the machine ‒ after all, from what she'd seen of it, it was hardly the kind of thing he'd take to the supermarket for a grocery run ‒ or maybe it was some kind of classified military craft which he wasn't allowed to discuss with her, which seemed more likely.

Or maybe it still haunted his nightmares.

After two weeks he went back to Knightsbridge for the next round of medical appointments, and spent several hours on the Firm's firing range. Archangel asked to see him before he left.

"Hawke," he greeted him over a pile of paperwork on his desk. "How are you feeling?"

"You tell me. I'm sure you've already got the doctors' reports."

"Well, yes." Archangel had the relevant papers set in the one clear space on his desk. "Physically, you may not be ready to run a marathon yet, but you're perfectly healthy aside from a few sore muscles. I imagine you already knew that."

Hawke nodded.

"But unfortunately the drugs that Dr. Fairling gave you seem to have an extremely long half-life, and there are still traces of them in your bloodstream. Dr. Greenspan is not going to give you clearance to start flying again until they're completely gone."

"And how long will that take?"

"We don't know exactly what we're dealing with here. These drugs are something we haven't seen before. His best guess is another month."

"Michael ‒ "

Archangel raised a placatory hand. "Hawke, one thing we do know is that these are extremely potent, mind-altering chemicals. Do you want to be up there screaming around in Airwolf if there's a chance these things could still be affecting you? I know you're stubborn, but I don't think you're stupid. Besides, as I recall you were having some issues just with the thought of Airwolf. In fact, you were so screwed up, to put it bluntly, that you actually tried to destroy it by ramming it with a twelve-year-old subcompact car." Archangel put up one hand to rub his moustache, covering his mouth.

Hawke ignored that. "Well, what about that stuff that Caitlin shot me up with, when I was in Horn's place in Texas? Wouldn't that work?"

"Do you want to die again?" asked Archangel brutally.

"I didn't die."

"You came damn close to it. Certainly it was enough to fool Cait. Next time it could be for real. That stuff's as dangerous as the drugs it was designed to neutralize. Strictly last-resort."

Hawke slumped back in his chair. Archangel went over to his small bar and poured a shot of Scotch for both of them. "Only another month, Hawke."

"At somebody's best guess."

Archangel shrugged.

After a silence while both men swallowed their drinks, Hawke asked, "Any sign of Horn?"

"None at all, I regret to say. We've cleaned out his five known residences and assorted other boltholes in the U.S. Three we already knew of, and Ann told us about a few more. No sign of either him or Fairling at any of them. Wherever he is, he's dug himself in deep."

"No chance he could have gotten out of the country?"

"It's a possibility," Archangel allowed. "But it's not likely. Every border and point of departure were being watched by just about every law enforcement agency in the country, covert and otherwise, within an hour of Airwolf picking you up."

"So our best chance of finding him is still making him come after me."

"Hawke ‒ " began Archangel, alarmed.

"Don't worry, Michael. I'm not planning on putting myself on billboards or anything like that. I'd rather not meet him again myself until I'm back to flying. I'm just going to keep on doing what I'm doing, and hope I get a nibble."

"I just hope," said Archangel sourly, "that that nibble doesn't turn out to be more like a shark bite."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

He went back to the cabin and flung himself back into his routine, as if hoping that sheer hard work would burn off the dregs of the poison in his body. Elena noticed him wincing one afternoon as he put away a set of weights. "Hold still," she said, and squeezed his trapezius muscle hard. He let out a yelp.

"That's what I thought," she said with satisfaction. "You've got knots like golf balls in those muscles. I think I need to do something about that. You go get undressed and lie down upstairs."

One eyebrow shot up. "Is this a proposition?"

"Don't overestimate your charms, Mr. Hawke," she said austerely. "Up you go. I'll be there in a minute."

He went, looking down at her warily from the staircase. She smiled to herself, and rummaged in her belongings for what she wanted. Finally finding her travel-sized bottle of baby oil, she went upstairs to find him obediently unclothed and lying face down on the bed, chin resting on crossed forearms, with a very large bath towel draped modestly across his hips. She smiled again at the sight, wondering if she dared ask him if he thought there was any part of his anatomy she hadn't seen before, but decided he wouldn't appreciate the remark. She spread a bit of the baby oil on her hands and got to work.

Gradually he began to relax. "I didn't know you had magic fingers."

"I used to do this at the clinic sometimes. It really seemed to help some people." She rubbed and kneaded for a while, working her way across his shoulders and upper arms. She needed to talk to him and this wasn't really the best time, but on the other hand, he was usually so busy moving from one self-imposed task to the next that it was hard to initiate a real conversation. "String, I was wondering . . . "

"Hmm?"

"I really love it here, but I've been sponging off you for nearly a month now, and I really think it's time I started looking for my own place. And a job. You can't keep putting me up indefinitely."

He sighed. "You don't think you're earning your keep here?"

"I think I've helped you, and that's what I want. But you don't really need me any more, and I should either go back to New Hampshire or start looking for a place here."

"You're making me feel wonderful and then you say you should leave?" he grumbled.

Her fingers found a knot in the muscle and began to work at it deftly. "Ouch!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. There, is that better?"

"Wait a minute." He rolled over onto his side. She noticed with amusement that he made sure the towel didn't shift by so much as an inch. "_I _owe _you _an apology. I know that being my housekeeper and masseuse and motivator ‒ "

"Nag, you mean."

"I do not. Shut up and let me make my speech. ‒ isn't the most fun job in the world. All I can say is, the working conditions are better than they were at the clinic."

"Pay's worse," she said cheerfully.

"And I thought _I_ was the mercenary."

She didn't know quite what that meant, and wondered if it was an allusion to something else in his past. "String, if you really needed me ‒ if you were back in that wheelchair, or bedridden, heaven forbid ‒ I'd gladly stay and look after you for nothing, for as long as you wanted. But you don't need me. It's been a wonderful vacation here, but I need to get my life back in gear again. And I'm sure you want to have this place to yourself again." He'd never so much as hinted at that, but the cabin was clearly meant to be lived in by just one person.

"I understand." He didn't make any attempt to change her mind. Instead, he grinned. "Do I get the rest of the massage first?"

"Mr. Hawke, if you plan to continue damaging yourself like this, I'm prepared to offer you lifetime massage and TLC at special rates, with free prayers every thousand miles or six months, whichever comes first. Now roll over and hold still. I can feel another knot here."

"Ouch!"

-------------------

He decided it was high time to return to Santini Air and see what he could do to help Dom out, even if he couldn't do any flying. After all, he hadn't exactly been pulling his weight around there for the better part of a year. Elena came back to the city with him, to stay at Caitlin's place again while she job-hunted. Dom was delighted, and welcomed him back with a jumbo-sized coffee and a stack of invoices dating back weeks that had to be sorted out.

Hawke blinked at the size of the pile. "Jeez, Dom, you ever thought of hiring a secretary?"

"Who needs a secretary? I just got a little behind, is all. We seem to have been short-handed for a few months for some reason." Dom always had been heavy-handed with the sarcasm. "You get that bunch sorted out and we'll be fine. Oh, and see if you can find if we got a new fuel pump in for the Hughes, will ya? I thought I ordered one, but I'm damned if I can find it anywhere."

"Right." Hawke sat down at Dominic's desk and took several gulps of coffee. "A little behind" looked like a vast understatement, even by Santini Air standards. And if the older man's filing systems were still in their usual state of semi-disaster, he'd be lucky to track down that fuel pump before they were hit for non-payment of the supplier's account.

He was surprised, and rather pleased, by the number of people from around the airfield who dropped by during the day to welcome him back. Most of them wanted to know where he'd been all this time, to which his stock answer was that he'd decided to spend some time back East. Most of the well-wishers, knowing Hawke's reputation for taciturnity, weren't surprised at such a close-mouthed response; the few who pressed for more details were met either by feigned deafness or a look that told them to mind their own business.

At least Dom got a chuckle out of it. "Y'know, probably most of those guys figure you've been doing time in jail for something."

"Fine. Maybe they'll be less likely to bug me that way."

He plugged away at the pile and had the bills paid and the orders sorted out by the end of the day. Dom wasn't exactly effusive in his thanks. "Always knew you were good for something, String. Maybe tomorrow I'll let you loose on the inventory."

"Gee, now _there's_ an exciting prospect."

"Oh, and did I mention that the coffee maker's bust? You could maybe try fixing it."

"You could maybe try buying a new one."

"You got a big mouth for someone who spent the last six months or so sitting on his butt while other people did all the work."

----------------------

Getting back into the routine of work helped to promote the illusion that things were back to normal, even though he was being little more than a glorified secretary. He managed to track down the fuel pump for the Hughes, stuffed in a storage cupboard, but apparently the only way Dom trusted him to install it was with himself breathing down the back of Hawke's neck to check his work. Hawke kept his temper under control, and later, his feet up on the desk when Caitlin came back from a charter flight and mentioned an odd vibration she'd noticed in the Jet Ranger during flight.

"Up and down or side to side?" asked Dom.

"Side to side."

"Huh. You checked the blades before you took her up, didn't you?"

Caitlin rolled her eyes. "Yes, Dom, I checked the blades before I took her up."

"Just asking," he said hastily. Then he growled at Hawke, "Hey, do ya think you could fit it into your appointment book to give us a hand with this?"

"I'm just the receptionist around here, remember?" said Hawke, without moving. Both Dom and Cait glared at him. "But I'll be happy to get you both some coffee while you work."

"You get your skinny butt over here and bring that ladder with you or you'll be walking back to your cabin, 'cause I ain't gonna be your chauffeur with that attitude."

Grinning, he went.

-------------------

He moved into Dominic's spare bedroom temporarily. It wasn't fair for the other man to spend so much time and fuel flying him back and forth to the lake. Besides, Hawke knew it kept Dominic happy to have him somewhere he could keep an eye on him. Dom was still uneasy about Hawke being on his own up at the cabin under the circumstances, and Hawke occasionally wondered if he might be right. After all, it was fine to say that he would find Horn by letting the other man come to him, but that presupposed having some sort of plan for stopping him once he got there, and at the moment Hawke was distinctly short on plans of any but the most nebulous variety. The best he'd been able to come up with so far was taking Michael up on his offer of sending in Zebra Squad if Hawke yelled for help. That might be the most effective solution, but it just didn't offer the satisfaction that he had to admit he craved.

The third night he was there Dom's phone rang just before four in the morning. It was a security guard from Van Nuys calling to let him know there had just been a break-in at the hangar. Hawke drove them to the airport at record speed.

"Doesn't look like anything's been taken, or damaged," said Dominic, after a quick inspection. The interior of the hangar looked exactly as it had when they'd left the evening before. "And you didn't see anybody around?"

The guard shrugged. "By the time I got here they were gone."

"I bet." Dominic's look made it obvious just how quickly he figured the guard had responded to the alarm. The man glared back at him. "Hey, do you think I ‒ "

Hawke had been taking a close look at the forced lock on the door. "Anybody else have a problem?" he cut in.

"Not that I know about. Not everybody's got an alarm system, though."

The guard left. "Maybe we should think about getting a couple of security cameras installed around here," said Hawke thoughtfully.

"Oh yeah? And who's gonna pay for those?"

"Archangel might."

"You think this has something to do with the Lady?"

"I don't know, Dom. It might. Or it could have something to do with Horn. Or it could be we're paranoid and it's just a common garden-variety thief looking for whatever he figured he could get, who got scared off when the alarm sounded."

Dominic scratched at his head. He looked rumpled and unshaven and tired, which was exactly how Hawke felt. "Well, we've had those before. What's that lock look like?"

"Like someone just smashed at it till it broke."

"Great. There go my insurance premiums again. Well, we better take a closer look around. Hey, Charlie should be open soon ‒ let's get some coffee first."

"Too bad whoever it was didn't steal the coffee maker," said Hawke, following him out the door. "Then maybe the insurance would've paid for a new one."

-------------------

Two other nearby businesses reported break-ins in the morning. One had had several boxes of tools and parts stolen, the other had been like Santini Air, the lock broken but nothing taken. Hawke knew the police were going to write it off as yet another case of vandalism and minor theft. There was a lot of grumbling about the lack of security around the airfield; nearly everyone there had experienced that kind of problem at some point.

Later in the day Hawke said, "Dom, I need to ask you a favour."

"Sure, kid. What is it?"

"Come with me to check on the Lady."

Dom stared at him. "Now?"

"No, not now. Maybe tomorrow night."

Dom looked at him closely. "So you _do _think there's a problem."

"No, I don't. I just think – I want to see her, that's all. Make sure everything's okay."

"With Airwolf? Or with you?"

Hawke didn't answer.

"You weren't planning on flying her, were you? I thought the doctors said – "

"Dom, right at the moment I don't even know if I _can_ fly her. For all I know, I may take one look at her and turn and run away screaming. Or try to put a bullet through the windshield again. I need to find out. It's the one thing I'm not sure about yet, and I need to be sure. You understand?"

The older man heaved a huge, gusty sigh. He came over to lean on the same tool bench Hawke was parked against, and the two of them stood side by side looking out the open hangar doors. "You know, String, if we ever meet up with Horn again, and if for whatever reason you can't stuff Airwolf down his throat . . . then I'll do it for you."

"Thanks, Dom. But like I said before, this is personal."

"Oh? And you don't think it's personal for me too? God, String, I just hate the thought of you being in that place. I've had a nightmare or two about it myself. And all that time we had no idea, we were looking so damn hard for you, not knowing if you were still even alive . . . " His voice faltered. "Hell, I'm getting mushy in my old age. Don't mind me. But I don't want to hear any more about personal."

Hawke put an arm around the older man's shoulders. "I tried to tell Cait the other day to let go of whatever she had against Ann. I don't think it worked with her and God knows it hasn't worked with me. I'm not even gonna bother trying it with you. Will you go out to the Lair with me?"

"Sure I will. But you don't mind leaving your gun at home, do you?"


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

Centered in the ring of floodlights, Airwolf looked every bit as vicious and predatory as the machine his nightmares had conjured up. Hawke sat in the jeep and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold of the desert night.

He wasn't running away, but he didn't exactly want to get any closer, either.

At last Dominic shifted restlessly behind the wheel, getting more and more uncomfortable. "So ‒ ah ‒ are we going to sit here all night?"

It seemed like a perfectly good idea to Hawke, as opposed to getting out of the jeep and going any closer to the helicopter, but he knew Dominic was right. No, he couldn't just sit there. That would mean that John Bradford Horn, no matter where he was, alive or dead, had won. Horn and Dr. Fairling had done this to him. Their drugs, their words whispered or shouted into his mind, had skewed his perceptions, made him feel this fear that had absolutely no basis in reality. Airwolf was _his_, damnit. He knew she looked intimidating as hell to a lot of people. He had never been one of them. _Come on, Hawke. You're the pilot of this ship, for God's sake. Get your ass over there. You made yourself walk when you were supposed to be stuck in a wheelchair. You can walk the twenty feet to that machine._

"You okay, String? You need any help?" Dominic was asking anxiously.

"I'm fine." Great. Now he was giving Dom the creeps.

He got the jeep's passenger door open and climbed out. He walked steadily towards the helicopter. Before he had covered half the distance between them, he realized his heart was racing. In spite of the cold he was rapidly becoming drenched in sweat. He looked at Airwolf again, and had the feeling that behind the black windshield something was looking back at him. Something malevolent.

_Get a grip, he told himself sternly. It's an inanimate object. You might just as well be afraid of the jeep, or even a friggin' toaster. What you're feeling isn't real._

Dominic went past him and opened the starboard hatch. "C'mon, String. She's not gonna bite."

He made it the rest of the way, on legs that had gone stiff. He peeped around the hatch. Nothing there. _Of course not._

"I don't get it," Dominic was saying. "You flew all the way from New Hampshire to California in her. Didn't seem to bother you that much then."

"I don't know why, Dom. I was pretty much out of it at that point."

"And now that you're thinking more clearly, you're more mixed up? That doesn't make any sense."

"_None_ of this makes any sense," growled Hawke. "I really wish you could explain it to me, Dom, because I sure as hell can't. All I know is, coming out here was a bad idea. It looks like Michael was right. I'm not fit to fly a kite, let alone Airwolf."

"Aw, what does Michael know about it? You got your act together back at that clinic place, when Horn and that doctor figured they had you under their thumbs. You fooled _them_ pretty good. I'm bettin' you can do the same thing to Michael."

Hawke shook his head. "Not tonight, I can't. Sorry, Dom."

"No need to apologize to _me_, kid. Look, there are a coupla things I might as well check over while we're here. You mind waiting for a few minutes?"

"No." He retreated a few yards, over to the area where they stored the minimal amount of supplies that they kept on hand here. Dominic raised the starboard engine cowling, peered at something inside, and came over for an oil can and rag. Hawke suspected that anything in that compartment needed lubrication about as much as he needed a big greasy burger, and that Dom was just killing time hoping that a bit more proximity to Airwolf would help him relax. It wasn't working. He found that, although he didn't like looking at the helicopter, at the same time he didn't want to turn his back on it . . . just in case.

Dominic puttered around the engine compartment, while taking an occasional glance at him when he thought Hawke wasn't noticing. There was no doubt that Hawke had put some weight back on and physically looked as fit as ever, but it seemed to the older man that there was still a creeping trace of that weirdness in his eyes, especially now. Maybe it was because his gaze kept darting around the cave, not focussing on anything for longer than a few seconds. He seemed unable to look at Airwolf at all. "Y'know, String, I'm being nice to you tonight," said Dominic, "but if this goes on, I'm gonna have to kick your butt right into that cockpit."

"Believe me, I'd kick my own butt if I could."

Dominic snorted with laughter. He put down the oil can, poked around at the engine for a bit longer, then finally replaced the cowling, not a moment too soon for Hawke. But the older man wasn't ready to go yet. "Y'know, while we're out here, there's another job we should really take care of."

"Yeah?"

"We mothballed her last fall, String, after you'd been missing for about three months. Cait and I didn't plan on flying her without you. We unloaded all the ordnance, then, when we found out you were at that clinic place, we didn't take the time to do more than just put the minimum back in. We figured we were just going to be springing you from a hospital, we weren't expecting any firefights." He jerked his head in the direction of a pile of crates, sitting in the shadows off to one side. "Think maybe we should get all that stuff re-loaded?"

So much for stuffing Airwolf down Horn's throat. Loading the helicopter's full complement of missiles and ammunition would take at least an hour, and right at the moment that was an hour Hawke would rather spend nearly anyplace else. "Let's do it the next time. It's pretty late and you've got an early start in the morning." Dominic had a charter flight leaving for Yosemite at 0600.

"Whatever you say." Dom put everything away and turned out the lights, then killed the battery-powered generator. Hawke swung the jeep around and headed out of the Lair.

The moon wasn't up, but the starlight reflecting off the dusting of snow was sufficient for him to follow the faint track without turning on the headlights. Around them, darkness and silence stretched for miles.

All the same, Hawke had only driven about a hundred yards from the entranceway to the Lair before he started feeling the prickling sensation in the back of his neck that warned him that someone, somewhere, was watching him.

He'd taken Dominic's suggestion about leaving his gun behind, and he knew that Dom was unarmed as well. He'd kept a gun locked in a storage compartment aboard Airwolf, though. He said urgently, "Hang on, Dom," stood on the brakes, then reversed as fast as he could.

"What the ‒ " Dom yelped, hanging on for dear life.

They were within fifty feet of the cavern entrance when someone shot out the rear tires of the jeep. It swerved violently and the back end impacted hard with a massive boulder. Hawke slammed the gearshift into first, hauled the wheel around and stamped on the gas, still trying to make it back into the Lair. The maimed jeep lurched forward until another jeep appeared in front of him and rocked to a halt directly in his path. Two men, armed with night vision goggles and M16 assault rifles ‒ probably the ones who had shot out his tires ‒ jumped out. Hawke tried to reverse again, but by now there was a second vehicle behind him, a taller 4X4 that looked like an expensive model of Land Rover. Its headlights blinded him as he spun around to look over his shoulder. It stopped a few yards away; four more men with similar guns and night gear emerged. Six extremely lethal-looking weapons were now pointed at the Santini Air jeep.

The front passenger door of the Land Rover opened and someone else stepped out in a leisurely manner. Hawke squinted, trying to identify the figure silhouetted in the Land Rover's headlights. "Good evening, Mr. Hawke," said a voice. "I suggest you toss out your weapons and get out of your jeep very slowly."

Hawke felt his stomach contract as he realized two things. The voice belonged to John Bradford Horn; and all six M16's were trained, not on him, but on Dominic Santini.

There was a pause, then Hawke said steadily, "We're unarmed."

"Really? Forgive me if I have a hard time believing that." Hawke saw the head jerk. It must have been a command, because two of the men from the Land Rover strode forward. One seized Hawke and the other took Dom, pulling them from the jeep and giving them a quick but thorough patdown, then returning to Horn's side.

The Land Rover's door opened again and someone else climbed out. This time Hawke recognized the person just as she stepped into the glare of the headlights. It was Dr. Fairling.

"Mr. Hawke, would you come over here, please?" said Horn.

Stiffly, Hawke moved forward.

"String! What are you doing?" demanded Dominic. He started to lean over to grip the younger man's arm.

The sound of six rifles coming to bear on them was very loud in the desert night.

"Shut up, Dom," growled Hawke. He came to a halt a few paces in front of Horn and Fairling. Raising his hand, he tried to shield his eyes from the glare of the headlights.

Horn didn't seem to be in any hurry to move things along. He looked Hawke up and down slowly, with the kind of professional interest a butcher would show in a side of beef. Hawke kept his own face impassive. He just wished Horn would do whatever the hell it was he was planning to do and get it over with.

When Horn finally decided to speak, his voice was quiet, almost conversational. "You've cost me a lot of money, Stringfellow Hawke. And a hell of a lot of trouble. Not to mention a perfectly good whore in Angelica."

Hawke stayed silent. Fortunately Horn didn't seem to expect a reply.

"It hasn't been a total loss, of course. Dr. Fairling has done some very productive and creative research in the field that I, as a layman, bluntly call mind control."

A muscle jumped along Hawke's jawline. He couldn't see Horn's smile, but he could hear the poisoned amusement in the man's voice. "Of course, you're more familiar with the results of her work than I am. Pretty effective, wouldn't you say?"

"Not effective enough," snapped Hawke.

"Many of the drugs I incorporated into your treatment had only been in phase two clinical trials when I acquired them," said Fairling primly, her professional honor apparently stung.

"In other words, Hawke, your highest and best use to me thus far has been as a lab rat," continued Horn.

"What about the downpayment on the twenty-five million you were getting from Jhagesh Khan for me and Airwolf? I'll bet you didn't return that to him." Hawke wasn't sure why he was bothering to keep the conversation going. It certainly wasn't because he was enjoying any part of it, and there was only one way it was likely to end.

"So the Firm has been keeping tabs on me," said Horn thoughtfully. "Well, well. As for your question, Hawke, no, I haven't returned Khan's money to him. On the other hand, I still plan to keep at least part of my bargain and deliver Airwolf to him, now that you've led us to its location. By the way, if I thought that you'd be able to make use of the suggestion, I'd tell you to make sure to check all your vehicles for homing devices after a break-in."

Of course. The brightly-painted Santini Air jeep had been parked in the hangar that night.

"How do you think you're going to deliver Airwolf anywhere? You won't be able to fly it."

"Oh, I have no intention of trying to fly it, personally. But I have two men here who are both extremely capable pilots, who have logged between them nearly twenty thousand hours of flying time, on every type of chopper flown by the military. I don't imagine they will find Airwolf that much of a challenge. I'll admit its value will be somewhat reduced without you, but I'm willing to take the loss. Khan will still get his money's worth." He nodded at the two men closest to the Lair's entrance. They detached flashlights from their belts and headed into the mouth of the cave. "Now, Hawke, as for you . . . doctor?"

The woman opened what looked like a small purse or pouch she'd been carrying. "Your arm, please, Mr. Hawke," she said briskly.

"What is this, a better mousetrap?" asked Hawke contemptuously. He had thought he couldn't get any colder than he already was; now, in spite of his bravado, he found he'd been wrong.

He couldn't go back into that prison again, not for anything. Not even his own life. But Horn had Dominic dead in his sights.

"Not a mousetrap," said Horn, and his tone of voice wasn't conversational any more. "A lethal injection. I'm being magnanimous, Hawke. Be a fool and you can watch Santini die. Cooperate, and you'll save his life. And your own end will have some dignity to it."

"I've got no reason to believe anything you say. You'll kill us both, anyway."

"I might. Then again, I might just keep my word. Do you want to take the chance?"

Slowly, Hawke took the last three steps to close the distance between himself and Horn. Two of Horn's men closed in on him, each grasping an arm. Dr. Fairling lifted her syringe. "Good boy," breathed Horn.

"_String! No!_" Dominic's agonized shout rang off the mountain that held Airwolf.

Hawke half-turned his head, saw Dominic make a sudden, wild lunge at one of their captors. He got both hands on the man's rifle.

"Shoot him," said Horn coldly, and one of the other rifles fired. In the headlights, Hawke clearly saw Dominic's eyes go wide. Then he was falling, turning away from Hawke as he fell, landing hard on the snowy ground and lying still as Hawke watched in horrified incomprehension.

"Hold him!" Horn directed a split second later, and more hands snatched at him. Hawke drove himself towards the ground, hoping to pull some off his opponents off balance. In sheer desperation, he employed a tactic he hadn't used since he was eight and scrapping with a much sturdier St. John ‒ he twisted his head and bit down hard on one hairy exposed wrist. The man yelled and his grip loosened. Hawke rolled, his body catching another man in the shins and bringing him down. He kept on rolling until he was free and came to his feet in one fluid movement, giving the downed man a rib-crushing kick. Someone grabbed him from behind, while the fourth came at him with his rifle held like a club. Hawke ducked as best he could. The swinging weapon hit him hard, the arc of the blow slicing off a patch of hair and bloody scalp, but without the killing impact its wielder had intended. The man was off balance now and too close. Hawke swung his feet clear of the ground and kicked out hard, forward and then back. The man who'd swung the rifle went down, and the one holding him swore as Hawke's right heel cracked his kneecap. Hawke gave a particularly agile, eel-like twist, broke free and took off running into the dark.

He didn't have to run too far before he came to an arroyo that was deep enough to hide him from sight. He dove in and stood still for a brief moment to recover his breath and his night vision, hearing the sound of pursuit behind him and seeing the flash of headlights above his head. When he could see and breathe relatively easily he sprinted up the gully, hunched over to keep his head below the edge. With luck they wouldn't find the arroyo, or else would drive right into it and cripple their vehicle.

He didn't really expect to be that lucky. His pursuers had night vision goggles, weapons, four-wheel drives. But at least he was still alive, and still moving, and he knew the desert much better than they did. He shoved the thought of Dom to the back of his mind, to be dealt with later. He had to reach Airwolf, and he had to do it before Horn's pilots figured out how to fly her; that was his only chance of catching Horn. After Horn had been taken care of he would think about Dom, and grieve for him if he had to.

The terrain was much more varied, offering far more places for one man to stay hidden, than anyone might have expected who wasn't familiar with it. Hawke was able to travel a good distance down in the arroyo before it became too shallow to offer enough concealment. By that time he was close to the flank of the hollow mountain where Airwolf was hidden. He needed to work his way about a half mile further around the base of the mountain. The track they normally used wasn't the only entrance to the Lair; there were at least two other ways to get in on foot, although anyone trying to get through either one of them had to be thin, agile, and definitely not claustrophobic.

A burst of fire from one of the M16's parted the air close to his head. He hit the ground and burrowed into the shelter of a group of massive boulders. Risking a cautious glance out of his hiding place, he caught a brief glimpse of a dark-clad figure against the snowy ground about a hundred feet behind him. A moment later headlight beams came bouncing wildly in his direction.

Keeping as low as possible, Hawke began scrambling over and around the rocks. There was too much debris on the ground around here for even a jeep to come much closer, and if his luck held even the night vision goggles wouldn't help to pick him out. He concentrated on moving as quickly and quietly as he could without breaking an ankle. A few more shots whizzed over his head, but he knew it was more likely they were trying to flush him out, or trying for a lucky shot, than that they had any serious hope of hitting him.

Ten minutes later he found what he was looking for, a thin dark slit in the sandstone, almost hidden behind more boulders. He would have missed it if the moon hadn't been rising by then, and even so he doubted he would have seen it at all if he didn't know it was there. He had to crouch down to get inside, then grope his way deeper into the mountain. He'd never tried this without a flashlight, and after a few minutes he hoped he would never have to do it again. There was one spot where the opening was so narrow he could barely force his way through. He didn't remember it being such a tight fit the one time he'd come this way before, and he had a few anxious, sweaty minutes wondering if he'd gotten lost somehow, or if this was the wrong place entirely, leading him so deep into the mountain that he'd never find his way out again.

He stopped to take a few deep breaths, and suddenly heard the faint sound of voices. He wormed his way around a corner and could see light up ahead. Another minute or so of cautious, silent stalking and he reached the point where the crevice debouched into the Lair.

The opening was about ten feet higher than the floor of the cavern. He crouched there, waiting for the right moment.

Horn's pilots had found the generator and gotten the floodlights going, but that looked like the sum total of their success. Both of Airwolf's hatches were open but there was no sign of any imminent takeoff. Hawke figured that not only were the pair probably having a hard time figuring out their asses from a hole in the ground in the cockpit, but having seen the interior of the Lair they were likely wondering how the hell they were going to manage a confined area takeoff out of there, in almost complete darkness and in an unfamiliar ship. That maneuver had given Hawke himself a few sweaty-palmed moments the first couple of times he'd tried it, and he at least had been a lot more familiar with the aircraft.

He was looking almost directly at Airwolf's tail rotor. The two men were off to his right, in the small work area. It sounded as if they were talking to a third man, but they were blocking Hawke's view and he couldn't see the person. Whoever it was was sitting on the floor, and both pilots were yelling at him, demanding information about getting Airwolf into the air; from the sound of what they were wanting to know they hadn't figured out how to get even halfway through the checklist yet. Who the hell . . .

Dominic!

For a split second Hawke thought he was going to pitch right out into the cave, and grabbed at the rough walls of his hiding spot to steady himself. He should have known.

Would have known, if he hadn't been so busy saving his own ass.

Dom wasn't telling them anything. One of the pilots moved aside and Hawke could finally see the older man. He was propped up against one of the workbenches, the left sleeve of his jacket hanging loose as if his arm or shoulder had been bandaged underneath. _They must be really desperate if they've patched Dom up, hoping he'll help them._

Even as he watched, one of the pair lost his temper, drew back his foot and kicked Dominic in the shoulder. It wasn't a hard blow, but it was enough to make the older man slump forward, unconscious.

"Well, that was real smart," said the second of Horn's men, scathingly. "You kill him, we may never get this thing figured out."

"He's not gonna help us anyway. Come on, let's take another look. If we don't get this damn thing out of here Horn will cut the balls off the both of us."

_Probably not, but he'll make you wish he'd been that nice to you, _thought Hawke_._ Both men turned back to Airwolf; the one who had put his boot to Dom climbed into the pilot's seat, while the other started to duck under the tail boom, headed for the other side. Hawke gathered himself and sprang.

With both surprise and momentum on his side it was easy enough to dispatch his target. Hearing the disturbance, the other man jumped back out of the cockpit and came rushing at him. Hawke blocked his first blow, ducked under the next, came up swinging as the man overbalanced and sent him flying four feet back with one immense punch to the jaw. He hauled both men off to the side and hastily tied them up with a length of rope from one of the storage lockers. Then he went to kneel beside Dom, gently pulling him up to a sitting position.

The older man's face was a shade of gray that Hawke didn't like at all, and his pulse was far too fast. The left shoulder of his jacket was wet with blood. He peeled it back and found that someone had done a rough and ready job of binding up the injury, but the padding they'd used was soaked through. He searched frantically in the lockers again and came up with a couple of his own shirts, left there in case he needed a change of clothes after a mission, and a handful of rags, a bit oily but the only things he could find that would help to staunch the blood flow. The bullet at that range had gone straight through, but it looked as though it had taken half of Dominic's shoulder with it.

The other man woke up as Hawke was tying the rags in place with his shirts. "String?" he said hoarsely, obviously not quite believing his own eyes. "That really you?"

"Yeah, Dom, it's really me. We have to get you out of here and get you some help. Think you can make it to Airwolf?"

"Sure . . . you didn't let those two get the Lady, then."

"Naw, 'course not."

"String, you're hurt ‒ your head . . . "

"Huh? Oh, yeah." He'd forgotten about the scalp wound, caused by Horn's man trying to club him. "It's no big deal, Dom, you know what head wounds bleed like. I'm fine. Come on, can you stand up?"

"Sure I can. I'm okay. I'm okay. Just a bit dizzy."

Hawke basically lifted him to his feet. He groaned and swayed. Hawke waited a minute, then struggled to get him the twenty feet over to Airwolf. He wanted to put him in the co-pilot's seat ‒ he didn't have the strength to get him in the back ‒ but Dominic insisted on taking his regular position at the engineer's console, and somehow found the strength to get himself there. "You're gonna need scans . . . if we're gonna find Horn in the middle of the desert," he got out.

"We're not gonna even look for Horn. We're gonna get you to the closest hospital."

That got a ghost of a chuckle out of Dominic. "You think the Lady . . . looks like an air ambulance?"

"Doesn't matter. You just hold on, you hear me?"

"String, you can't just leave Horn out there."

"Shut up, Dom. Horn's corpse isn't worth your dying for." He closed the starboard hatch.

One of Horn's pilots was carrying a radio on his belt. Hawke heard it squawking as he was hurrying around Airwolf's nose. "Simmons, Gossidge, are you there? Report, please."

Hawke grabbed the radio. "This is Simmons," he said gruffly. "We'll be on our way in five minutes. Out." He slammed the radio to the ground and stomped on it, then found the other man's radio and destroyed it as well. Then he rushed through one of the fastest pre-flight inspections he'd ever done and shut off the lights and the generator before jumping in the port hatch and putting on his helmet. "You still with me, Dom?"

"Sure I am, kid."

"Here goes." He started the first engine.

"String, you okay?" Dom's voice suddenly sounded much more alert, and worried. Hawke looked back in surprise.

"I told you, Dom, it's not bad. Looks worse than it is."

"I don't mean your head. I meant the ‒ the other thing."

"What other ‒ oh, yeah. It's under control. Don't worry about it." It was, too. If his heart was pounding faster than usual, his palms sweaty and his legs more than a bit on the rubbery side, he chose to blame it on all the exertion in the last half hour. He had to fly Airwolf. He had no choice.

The rotors were up to speed. He dropped his visor so he could use SLAS and eased back on the collective, and Airwolf climbed up into the night sky.


	16. Chapter 16

Sitting in the Land Rover next to John Bradford Horn, the man holding the radio was looking at it, frowning. Slowly he turned to look at his employer.

"That didn't sound like Simmons," he said.

"No," said Horn. "It was Stringfellow Hawke." He leaned forward to speak to the driver.

----------------

Airwolf cleared the top of the mountain and headed west. Hawke had decided the best thing to do was to head straight for Knightsbridge and its medical facility. It wasn't the closest place but the extra time it would take to get there would be cancelled out by the speed with which Knightsbridge could react and the fact that he wouldn't have to waste time with explanations. He hit the radio buttons to make the call.

"String, the infrared scanners are showing two vehicles heading south by southwest at high speed, distance ten miles."

"Dom, you're supposed to be resting, not running scans!" snapped Hawke.

"Doesn't take much to press a coupla buttons. We going after them?"

Hawke opened his mouth to tell Dom once and for all that they were headed to a hospital by the quickest possible route, but what came out was, "We have any ordnance left at all?"

"A few rounds for the guns, that's it."

He could go after the two vehicles, hope they stayed conveniently close together so he could take both of them out with the minimum of time and bullets, hope he had enough bullets to inflict the necesary damage, hope he got lucky. If he didn't, Dom might bleed to death and Horn might still survive. Too many variables, too much risk. He'd have taken the gamble with his own life, but he couldn't do it with Dom's. "To hell with it," he said out loud. "We're going to Knightsbridge. Hold on."

He refused to listen to the little voice in his head that wanted him to hit the turbos and break all the speed records. With that injury Dom couldn't take Mach 1 or anything like it. He proceeded on his course at a relatively sedate 300 knots, and reached up for the radio buttons again to contact Knightsbridge.

"String!" said Dominic suddenly, in what would normally have been a shout but was now hardly more than an urgent wheeze. "Got another contact, heading of 140 degrees. Looks like a man. No, wait, he's gone. No, there he is! Must be tryin' to hide in the rocks. Think it's Horn?"

Hawke thought it very likely was. If he hadn't been convincing enough on the radio back in the Lair, Horn would probably have figured out right away that Hawke had regained control of Airwolf. He would be willing to bet a great deal that the man had bailed, leaving the jeep and the Land Rover to take the road and make targets of themselves while he went cross country and hoped Hawke would be satisfied after he destroyed the two vehicles.

"C'mon, String. You can't leave it like this."

"The hell I can't."

"You don't do this and I croak anyway, so help me God I'll come back and haunt you for the rest of your life. Don't you see, this is something that's _got_ to be done? How much more misery are you gonna let that guy cause?"

Hawke snapped the visor back up, turned around and looked as closely as he could at Dominic's face. It was still that frightening shade of gray, but he didn't think the older man looked any worse, at least, than he had when they left the Lair. His eyes were bright and challenging as he met Hawke's gaze.

"You talk an awful lot for somebody who looks like he's trying to bleed to death," growled Hawke.

"I ain't dyin' for a while yet. Well?"

He sighed heavily. "All right. Give me that heading again."

"Attaboy." Dominic read off the numbers, and Hawke turned Airwolf around, dropping speed and altitude.

"Must be in those rocks," said Dom. Half a mile away from them was an immense jumble of sandstone boulders. It looked to be the only spot in the area that could provide much cover. Hawke dropped down low enough to practically scrape Airwolf's undercarriage on the highest part of the pile, flicked on the searchlight and made a few slow passes, but he couldn't see anything that might be a human figure.

"For sure he's in there," said Dom. It sounded as though he were starting to struggle for breath.

"How much ammo we got for the guns?"

"Enough for ten seconds, maybe."

It was possible to do a lot of damage in ten seconds. Hawke took them even lower and brought up the guns. For good measure he deployed the ADF pod as well. Airwolf hovered in front of the rock formation, the turbines making their characteristic snarl, all her teeth showing. Hawke just hoped Horn wouldn't realize they were false teeth. He flipped the switch for the external speaker.

"Horn, you coming out of there the easy way or the hard way?"

No answer. Hawke's finger tightened on the trigger. _Stupid goddamned fool for not re-loading everything when you had the chance. You think Horn was going to wait till you hung out a sign saying you were ready for him?_ _You could've easily blasted all these rocks to hell and Horn along with them._

He tried a short burst, just five seconds, to see if that would be enough to make Horn think he meant business. "He's on the move," reported Dominic. "Two o'clock. Looks like he's trying to get out the far side."

He re-aimed and fired a second round. This time he didn't even get five seconds' worth before the guns fell silent. Without taking his eyes off the rocks, he leaned forward and popped open a small storage bin in front of his right knee, groped around in it one-handed and pulled out a small Browning Hi-Power pistol.

Airwolf shot up and forward, skimming over the top of the rock formation. He set her down hard and fast on the other side, pulled off the helmet and got out, Browning in hand. Using the open starboard hatch as a shield, he scanned the rocks, gun sweeping from side to side. The rising quarter moon, reflecting off the snow, provided fairly good illumination; of course Horn probably had night vision goggles, which gave him the advantage.

A hint of movement above and to his right caught his eye. He squeezed off a shot in that direction and was rewarded with the sound of a minor cascade of stones as someone scrambled away. "Give it up, Horn," he yelled. "You know I can blow this whole place to dust." _Yeah, right. I just hope he doesn't know a bluff when he hears one._

"Hawke, if you had the ammunition to do that, you'd have already done it," taunted a voice from the rocks.

_So much for bluffing_. At least it gave him a partial fix on Horn's location. "Maybe I just want to see your face when I pull the trigger," he called.

No response. This was getting him nowhere. Horn could probably see him and would have no intention of wasting bullets while Hawke stayed where he was. The man might be trapped like a rat in a cage, but with Dom in such poor shape, time was all on his side. Hawke couldn't force him out and he couldn't wait him out. He had to go in after him.

He closed Airwolf's hatch, dropping into a crouch at the same time, and scurried the twenty feet to the base of the rocks while keeping as close to the ground as possible. He found a foothold and began to work his way into the jumble of boulders as cautiously as he could.

Caution went to hell ten seconds later, when a pistol shot was fired down at him from somewhere slightly above and ahead of him, blazing across the knuckles of his left hand. He let out a yelp and shook out his hand. Good thing it hadn't been his right, or he would have lost his gun for sure. Another shot sent up chips of rock a foot away from his face. He scrambled as fast as he could into a spot underneath another rock that leaned over at a precarious angle. He slithered forward another few feet, trying to figure out a way to get to a higher level. The next boulder was angled so as to present what looked like a temptingly easy climb, but it was out in the open. He risked a quick peek upwards from the edge of his shelter and saw movement above him, hardly more than a shivering of the darkness, as Horn abandoned his position and tried to make his way back the way he had come.

Hawke flung himself at the rock face in front of him and scrambled upwards. Panting, he hauled himself over the top, gun clenched firmly in hand. There was no one in sight. He ran forward and hurdled the gap between one boulder and the next.

A shot from the darkness below him sent a searing track up the side of his left leg.

He spun around, nearly falling, and looked down at a figure three feet below him, wedged into the gap he had just jumped. It was nearly invisible in the shadows. He could just make out the head, misshapen with the bulky night vision goggles, and the gun poised to make another shot.

He was close enough to see the face. He brought up his own gun and pulled the trigger.

Horn fell sideways, and Hawke heard the clatter of the gun falling. He dropped to his stomach and peered cautiously over the edge. In a lighter patch of shadow, he could see a black stain on the rock behind where Horn's head had been. He reached cautiously down with his left hand, while his right still held the Browning at the ready. Straining, he could just reach the goggles. He pulled them off and saw what was left of John Bradford Horn's face, the eyes glaring upwards through a bloody mask.

-------------------

Twenty minutes later, Airwolf landed at Knightsbridge in what was almost a replay of events when Hawke himself had come home. A group of people in white, probably the same crew that had attended to Hawke, loaded Dominic onto a stretcher with the same efficiency and bore him off inside the building.

Hawke felt completely sucked dry, and was literally too tired to move. He shut down the engines and slumped forward over the stick, resting on his forearms on top of the panel, as the blades slowly cycled down.

"This is a no parking zone, you know," said a voice in his ear. "You better move this thing before you get towed."

"Huh?" Hawke looked up, blinking, and was surprised to see Marella leaning into Airwolf's cockpit through the open port hatch.

"You've been sitting here for half an hour," she said gently. "Did you fall asleep, or are you just meditating?"

"Half an – how's Dom?"

"Still alive. They'll be taking him to surgery in a few minutes."

"Oh." He sat up and scrubbed at his face with one hand. He couldn't believe he'd been so idiotic as to fall asleep in Airwolf on the Firm's roof – with the door wide open, no less. He'd just been lucky somebody hadn't already whisked the machine away from him, no doubt leaving him sitting on his ass in the middle of the pad. In spite of that thought, he was ready to drop off again in a heartbeat.

Marella was looking at him in concern. "I think you'd better come inside too. You don't look so healthy either. Looks like somebody tried to scalp you."

"I'm okay," he replied automatically. Marella gave an un-ladylike snort.

"That's what I thought you'd say, so I brought you this." She held out an extra-large cup of coffee.

He wanted to tell her she was an angel, but didn't have the energy, so he settled for mumbling his thanks and taking the cup. With half its contents inside of him, he said, "Do me another favour and call Cait, would you? Somebody should be with him, and I've got to . . . " He gestured vaguely at the cockpit.

"Hide Airwolf somewhere safe?" Marella finished, smiling. "Anybody ever told you you have a one-track mind?"

"Yeah. It's just that sometimes it runs off the rails."

"You said it. Not me."

"Yeah, but you thought it."

She smiled again, sphinx-like.

He looked at his watch and was surprised to see that the time was only just after midnight. With everything that had happened, it felt like it should be almost dawn. But in any case it was still well after office hours. "What are you doing here in the middle of the night, anyway?"

"Horn hunting. Going through all recorded sightings of him, hoping to find some kind of pattern."

"Wait till tomorrow, and you can have a sighting of his dead body."

"Oh?"

"I just have to go back and collect it."

"Hawke, just tell us where – "

"No. I'll bring it in." He could hardly let a bunch of Firm agents go poking around the countryside within sight of the Lair.

"So it's over?"

"Yup. It's over."

She leaned in further and squeezed his shoulder. He winced. At some point in the evening that shoulder had taken some abuse. He couldn't even remember what had happened to make it so sore.

Marella straightened up. "Well, if you're determined not to do the sensible thing and get yourself checked over, you'd better get Airwolf out of here before I'm tempted to hijack her."

"Right." He could still barely move.

"I'm not going to say don't worry about Dominic. But you know he's in good hands."

He nodded. Marella closed the hatch and walked away. Hawke's finger hovered over the Start E-1 button, undecided.

He should take Airwolf back to the Lair, do something about the two men who were presumably still tied up there, and retrieve Horn's body. With Dom's jeep undriveable, it would mean spending the night in a cold cave. He was too tired to give a damn about where he slept, just so long as he could fall asleep somewhere and stay that way for about twenty four hours. But he couldn't spend any more time napping on Knightsbridge's roof, and Eagle Lake was a lot closer than the Lair.

There was just enough room to set Airwolf down behind the cabin. He thought he might have lopped off a few tree branches in the process, but decided he'd worry about that in the morning. Moving like an automaton, he got the camouflage netting over her, then staggered to the cabin. He had just enough strength to make it in the door before he passed out.

---------------------

Hawke came back to consciousness around sunrise to find himself on the floor with Tet licking his hair. He trudged back to Airwolf, called Knightsbridge and was told that Dominic was out of surgery and in stable condition. He left a message for Caitlin, then went back to the cabin and to bed, not waking until Caitlin's arrival in the early afternoon. Shocked at how rough he still looked, she insisted on him taking the time to shower and shave while she made coffee and sandwiches before they left for the Lair.

He decided that Airwolf was safe enough where she was under the camouflage netting. Besides, he really needed to check the blades after that rough landing last night – this morning – whenever. Sitting in the left seat of the Jet Ranger, munching on a sandwich, he was surprised at how much better he felt – almost ready to tackle the job of finding Horn's body.

Horn's two pilots were right where Hawke had left them, definitely the worse for wear and the fear that they would never be found alive. Hawke really didn't give a damn what happened to them, but given their condition Caitlin was slightly more sympathetic, giving them the bottled water she'd brought along for herself and Hawke.

"What are we going to do with them?" she asked in a low voice. "We can't just take them back to the Firm. They know about the Lair."

Hawke shrugged. "Push 'em out at ten thousand feet."

"Hawke!"

He refused to retract the statement. "I'm gonna go take a look at the jeep."

The back end of it was crumpled, as well as the two rear tires being shredded by bullets, but the spare tire was still intact and Caitlin had brought another one as per Hawke's request. He replaced both tires and found the vehicle was still driveable, just. Then they took the Jet Ranger to retrieve Horn's body.

He didn't really want Caitlin coming with him, but she pointed out that he would need her help, which was true; and also that the sight of the remains couldn't be any worse than the MVA's she'd sometimes had to deal with on highway patrol, which was also true. As they scrambled through the jumble of rocks, Hawke shook his head. He couldn't believe he'd let Dominic talk him into coming into this mess, which looked as if it'd been created specifically to twist and break human ankles, in the dark, with an armed and very dangerous opponent lurking somewhere inside. This must have been one of those times that, as Marella had carefully not said, his mind had run off the rails.

The exact spot was easy to find; all they had to do was follow the cluster of wheeling, squabbling birds. Hawke's shot from above had taken away most of the top of Horn's head, and the crows and a few other scavengers had already been busy. Caitlin gulped at the sight, her face turning pale, but after Hawke jumped down beside the corpse and tied a rope around it she steadfastly hauled on it while he pushed from below. When he reached the limit of his arms, he jumped up beside Caitlin and took over the rope, bringing the body bumping over the edge of the rock they were standing on, to stop at his feet.

They wrapped it in a couple of blankets and put it on the back seat of the helicopter, then headed back to the Lair. Hawke intended to have Caitlin head back to Knightsbridge with the body, while he took the two pilots in the jeep – they were the more dangerous cargo, if less unpleasant. However, the cave was empty when they got back. Extra footsteps in the dust, leading outside, were the only sign of their prisoners.

Hawke crooked an eyebrow at Caitlin, who went red. "Guess I didn't tie them up again as well as I thought. They probably thought you meant what you said about pushing them out at ten thousand feet."

"Who says I didn't mean it?"

Caitlin blinked. She'd assumed he hadn't. But with Hawke, you never knew. "Well, anyhow, at least they went out on foot and didn't bother trying to steal the jeep. They must have figured we could spot it too easily."

Hawke considered trying to go after them, but then shrugged mentally. To hell with them. He went back out and drove the jeep into the cave, leaving it parked next to Airwolf, then he and Caitlin set out once again in the Jet Ranger.


	17. Chapter 17

Three hours of surgery, six units of blood, and a day of rest later, Dominic was well enough to sit up in bed and complain about the necessity for staying in hospital, especially the Firm's hospital, although when Caitlin offered to get him his clothes so he could leave he was quick enough to come up with an excuse for taking further advantage of the Firm's hospitality.

Airwolf had been safely stowed back at the Lair, and Hawke had made sure that every last piece of weaponry was loaded and the Lady was ready to go at a moment's notice.

Now , slumped in a hard plastic chair, Hawke snorted derisively at the older man's hasty backpedalling. Dom glared at him. "I heard that. From the look of you, you ought to be stuck in a bed here too." When they'd arrived at Knightsbridge with what remained of John Bradford Horn, Hawke – after being nagged at by Caitlin for most of the flight – had finally consented to let one of the doctors take a look at him. The head wound had been properly disinfected and a couple of stitches put in, and the assortment of less gory injuries cleaned up. Now Hawke was sporting a small shaved patch on his head, covered with a piece of white gauze. When he saw himself in a mirror, he'd started trying to remember if he owned any ball caps that Tet hadn't chewed up. "You better hope that Elena lady hasn't found herself a job yet," Dom continued. "I think you need her to look after you."

"I think you need her more than I do. You're not gonna be able to use that arm for a long time. Elena's real good at spoonfeeding."

"Spoonfeeding, huh? You got personal experience, do you?" Dom tossed back at him. "That musta made a pretty sight."

Hawke squirmed. Now it was Dominic's turn to snort.

Marella had dropped by a few minutes ago and was leaning in the doorway. Archangel appeared behind her. "Well, well. The gang's all here."

"Not from choice," grumbled Dominic.

Archangel ignored him, looking at Hawke. "Nice trophy you brought in. A bit gory, but very welcome."

Hawke hid his surprise. He'd assumed that if he'd succeeded in catching Horn, the Firm would have been content to carry out its retribution through legal channels. It hadn't occurred to him that Archangel would actually be happy with the full and irrevocable stop that Hawke had put to the man's activities. Or at least not officially happy.

Archangel was continuing. "By the way, I've been informed that not only have you been flying with your license under suspension, you narrowly escaped being slapped with a parking ticket up on the helipad yesterday morning. You could be in a lot of trouble, you know."

"Maybe he's assuming Santini Air will be paying all the fines," suggested Marella.

"Fines? What fines?" yelped Dominic.

Hawke shrugged. "So sue me. My pilot was bleeding to death. And as for the other thing, I got let off with a warning. You can be damned sure I won't be doing that again."

"You better not," said Marella. "I'm not usually that lenient. If I'd been Michael, I'd have whipped that thing away from you so fast you wouldn't even know what happened. Not that you'd have known it if we'd hauled it away with the Budweiser Clydesdales, the shape you were in."

"What are you talking about?" asked Dominic suspiciously. "What happened yesterday?"

"Nothing, Dom," said Hawke. "Literally." He looked at Marella and Archangel. "I'm surprised you're standing there talking about parking tickets when you could have just snatched the damn thing."

Archangel shrugged. "I was unavailable. It was the middle of the night, after all. No one who was here at the time felt empowered to act without my authority."

"Mamma mia," groaned Dominic. "String, don't tell me you left the Lady sitting right on the Firm's doorstep."

Hawke cleared his throat, deciding to postpone any answer. He and Caitlin had already been visiting for half an hour, and he thought the older man was looking as if he was starting to fade a bit. Hawke also knew what Dominic hadn't mentioned, that he was facing at least one more surgery on his shoulder, possibly more. Dom was still in for a rough time, and it was a good thing that Hawke and Caitlin would be able to concentrate on running Santini Air.

He pushed off from the chair. "Come on, Cait. We better get going if we're gonna be at the field early tomorrow."

"What are you talking about?" said Dominic, frowning. "You mean you're going back to work? Don't you think you need a little downtime?"

"Dom, I've already _had _plenty of downtime. You were the one who told me I've spent the last six months or so sitting on my butt while other people did all the work, remember?"

"Yeah, but that's not – "

"I'd just like to remind you two that I was one of those people doing all the work while Hawke was gone," Caitlin interrupted. "I'm not planning on looking after the place all on my own if he gets any more time off."

"She's right, Dom. You might have to think about hiring a couple of people to replace us. There's lots of qualified pilots around, you know."

"Whose licenses _aren't_ under suspension," added Caitlin pointedly.

"All right, all right. You two get out of here and get your beauty sleep."

"Parsimoniousness, thy name is Dominic," muttered Archangel.

"What was that?"

"I think he's trying to insult you, Dom."

"Oh. Well, from him I wouldn't expect anything else."

Hawke grinned, gave Dom's shoulder – the right one – a squeeze, and headed for the door. Caitlin leaned down and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, murmured, "Get well, Dom," and followed Hawke.

He stopped in the doorway, face to face with Archangel. "What about that license, Michael?"

"Not my decision."

"I'm not going to be much use to Santini Air grounded."

"Really? From what I hear, you're a pretty fine receptionist. And even a half decent accountant, for somebody who can't do his own income tax."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Absolutely," Michael murmured. It wasn't often he got to succesfully bait Hawke.

A muscle along Hawke's jawline started to twitch. Michael relented.

"Come see me in three days. I'll talk to Dr. Greenspan." As Hawke's mouth opened to argue, Michael said swiftly, "Oh, relax. At this point it's hardly more than a formality. Get out of here, both of you. Get some rest, or something. Why not have a little celebration?

--------------------

They decided to postpone any celebrating until Dominic was out of hospital. Now Hawke stood at the end of the dock, leaning on the railing, feeling the warmth from the day's sunlight still in the wood under his folded arms. _One of these days I'm going to have to do something about those splinters._

The pines and mountainside on the far side of the lake were still lit by the last of the sunset, but it was already dusk where he was standing. Far off to his right, he caught the glide of an eagle, making one last flight over the water before the light faded completely.

John Bradford Horn had overshadowed his life to varying degrees for nearly two years now. He knew the man was dead and he didn't believe in shades that walked the earth. The demons that the drugs had raised had all subsided, or been wrestled down. It was over.

If only he could get relax completely, get rid of the tension that lived in a place inside of him that Elena's magic fingers could never reach. But that tension had been there long before he'd ever heard of Horn. Maybe it had even begun forming the day he'd left St. John behind; and if he ever truly let go of it, that might be the day he'd have to give up Airwolf. He'd have lost the edge he needed to fly her so successfully. Hawke wasn't a vain man, but he knew the facts. No one else could fly Airwolf as well as he did. Not her other test pilots, not Caitlin O'Shannessy, not even Dominic Santini. If it meant that he would always be a potential target for anyone who, like Horn, wanted possession of the helicopter for his own unscrupulous ends, well, that went with the territory. It didn't mean he liked it, or even that he was always prepared for it. But he had to accept it.

Lying beside him, Tet yawned, bored. Hawke looked down at him. "Yeah," he said softly. Tet was right. Time to go in, get some supper, plan for the next day, get some more sleep.

Get on with life.


End file.
